The Three Faces of Winchester
by TheYmp
Summary: For John, Dean, and Sam no one's quite as they seem, these Winchesters are a lot more troubled, but are we ever really who we think we are? The clues are there if you look for them. AU: Season 1. Mental illness. Not slash. For Truddi and the Troops. On hiatus.
1. Back in Black

****Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain from this. No harm or infringement intended.****

**For John, Dean, and Sam no one's quite as they seem, these Winchesters are a lot more troubled, but are we ever really who we think we are? The clues are there if you look for them. AU: Season 1. Mental illness. Not slash. For Truddi and the Troops.**

**Please review!**

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><p><strong>The Three Faces of Winchester<strong>

Dean sat in his beloved Impala, eating from a large bag of chips, and staring up at his brother's apartment. It had been a long time since they had last seen, or even spoken, to each other. Not since Sam had left to attend Stanford, and Dean realized shamefully that he couldn't recall if it was two or even three years ago.

He had knocked at the door earlier, but Sam was obviously not home. _Probably sitting in a library somewhere_, Dean snorted to himself, the smirk fading as he thought of the curious looks he'd received;_ it must be so obvious that I don't belong in this neighborhood_. Dean worried briefly that someone might warn Sam of his presence and he didn't want Sam spooked before he got a chance to speak to him.

I_t feels strange to be here, to be the one asking for help_, Dean realized; he had always been cast in role of the protector. It was Dean that had carried Sammy from the burning house that had claimed their mother's life. Not that he really remembered the specifics, he had only been four years old after all, but it had been one of the few things that his father, John, had ever really praised him for, albeit only when Winchester senior was flying three sheets to the wind.

Dean jolted, realizing that he must have dropped off while reminiscing - unsurprising given the problems he'd had sleeping recently. Feeling as if he'd gone a couple of rounds with a boxer, Dean pulled himself from the car and strode to the apartment door.

Sam opened the door just as Dean was about to knock on it. _I hate it when he does that_, thought Dean, thinking of all the times that Sam seemed to be instinctively aware of his presence, _why just with me and not the big bads?_

"Dean, what the hell are you doing here, man?" sighed Sam, putting on what Dean always thought of as 'Sam's bitch face'.

"Listen, Sam, we gotta talk," pleaded Dean.

"Sam?" called a female voice from within the apartment.

"Dad's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days," explained Dean.

"Hey, Jess, I need to go speak with my brother outside, I'll be back shortly," Sam called over his shoulder to a cute blonde.

Jess curled her lip with distaste, "Really? After everything you told me, you're going to speak him?"

"Hey!" called Dean in offence, the blonde conspicuously ignoring him.

Sam pulled her a conciliatory face, "I know, but family's family, y'know?" and with that he bustled Dean out of the way and pulled the door shut behind him.

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><p>"Listen Dean, I've had it with our dysfunctional family. I was never good enough for Dad, it was always 'Dean this' and 'Dean that'," Sam spat bitterly, "Dad's probably off on a bender, oh sorry, I mean another of his 'extended hunts' and he'll be back when it suits him."<p>

Dean shook his head sadly, "That's not how it is Sammy, he's just always wanted to keep you safe."

Sam laughed humorlessly, "Oh, that's enough, man - I can't listen to this story again, it makes me sick, y'know? Look, what sort of man runs back to his dead wife after ordering his four year old to carry his baby to safety?" Sammy lowered his tone in response to the curious stares from passersby, "How any of us every survived so far is a mystery."

"No Dean," Sam hissed when it looked like Dean was going to interrupt, "I've been seeing a therapist since I've been here, and y'know what? It's only recently come clear to me, but I'm remembering a lot now, and what Dad did to us - well, it's nothing more than abuse, plain and simple."

"You shut your filthy mouth!" exploded Dean in a blazing, white-hot anger, grabbing his brother by the collar and throwing him against the door.

"What's going on? Are you ok?" called Jessica fearfully from behind the door.

"Go back to your girlfriend," spat Dean, and with that he was gone.

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><p>The call to John Winchester's cell triggered the inevitable recorded message that Dean didn't even bother to listen to anymore.<p>

"Dad, it's Dean, I really need to speak to you," he pleaded, his voice suddenly small and choked, "please, let me know you're ok."

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><p>Sam held his head and groaned as he walked across the quad, he'd drunk heavily after the fight with his brother and had obviously passed out at some point to find himself in the morning crashed out on the couch.<p>

He sighed heavily as his brother stepped out from behind the trees and stopped in front of him and pulled an exaggerated apology face, "Sorry, Sammy. Can we try again?" asked Dean contritely, "How 'bout I buy you lunch?" he grinned.

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><p>Dean squeezed himself into the booth seat opposite Sam, giving his usual bad boy smirk to the slightly frazzled-looking waitress. "I'll have the cheeseburger, and the apple pie, darlin'," he drawled, with a cheeky wink.<p>

Looking at Sam pulling his disapproving bitch face, he added, "Oh, and a salad, thanks sweetie," he smiled.

In what seemed like only an instant later the waitress was back piling food on the table in front of him.

"Wow, that was quick," laughed Dean, as he tucked into the greasy burger while sliding the green salad across the table. "This is great," he mumbled through a mouthful of food, "feels like I've not eaten in an age."

Sam scowled in disgust at his brother's lack of table manners and moodily pushed the salad from one side of the plate to the other with his fork.

"So, this college thing must be really working for you, you can't be bothered with your family anymore," smiled Dean insincerely - even when he wanted something, he still couldn't quite make himself turn off the snark.

"It was Dad who said if I was going to go, I should just stay gone," sniped Sam, "and that's what I'm doing."

"Dad's in real trouble right now - if he's not dead already. I can feel it," said Dean intently, "I can't do this alone," he pleaded.

"Yes, you can," it was less an encouragement and more a statement of fact.

"Yeah, well. I don't want to," Dean answered petulantly, starting on his pie.

"So when Dad went hunting, why didn't you go with him?" asked Sam curiously.

"I was doing my own gig," frowned Dean, "this voodoo thing, down in New Orleans," he continued, sounding strangely unconvincing to Sam's ears.

Sam sighed heavily, "What was he hunting?" he relented.

"He was looking into a couple of disappearances on a highway just outside Jericho, California. That was about three weeks ago. I hadn't heard from him since, which is bad enough,"

Dean held up his cell phone, "Then I get this voicemail late last night."

He played back a message that was heavily distorted with static, "...something... starting to happen... I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may... Be very careful... Dean... We're... in danger."

Sam gave another of his heavy sighs that never seemed far away when family was concerned, "Ok," he relented, "but I need to be back for Monday."


	2. Woman in White

****Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain from this. No harm or infringement intended.****

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><p><strong>The Three Faces of Winchester - Chapter Two<strong>

Once the Winchesters arrived in Jericho a bizarre series of coincidences had led to a run-in with a Woman in White, a river dunking, and the fortuitous chance discovery of their father's motel room.

The state of the room had bothered Dean, it had obviously not been cleaned for a while - which was standard operating procedure, after all you don't want the maid messing about with your weapon collection - but his Dad had always remained a true marine at heart and had run a very tight ship - bunk inspections had been a way of life growing up.

Sam had dismissed Dean's concerns out of hand, which frankly pissed Dean off, but then Sam was too OCD-agitated by the smell from the dunking to focus on what Dean was saying, "Oh, don't get your panties in a twist, Samantha," teased Dean, his tone a little nastier than intended, as he'd limped and squelched his way to the bathroom.

The big girl was still pouting - and hadn't even managed to discover anything useful - by the time Dean had finished showering and had gotten dressed. Dean was ravenously hungry, it felt like days since his last meal, but Sam had just pulled his usual bitch face at the offer of food. _How that Sasquatch got so freakishly big when he never seems to eat anything is a real mystery_, thought Dean.

Dean pulled on his jacket and left in search of something to eat, still distracted by the unlikeliness of his sudden good fortune and the unanswered questions buzzing around in his head, _Something too good to be true usually is_, he mused.

The universe was obviously listening; as Dean walked into the car park he was just in time to see the motel clerk pointing a couple of Deputies in his direction.

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><p>"So you've got the faces of ten missing persons and a whole lot of satanic mumbo-jumbo taped to your wall. You do realize you're a suspect?" asked Sheriff Pierce.<p>

Dean, handcuffed to the interview table, rolled his eyes, but didn't respond.

"I know you've got a partner, an older guy," continued the Sheriff.

Dean tried to hide his obvious relief that Sam must have somehow sneaked out of the room without detection, but wondered how and what they knew about his father.

The Sheriff slammed a brown leather journal down on the table, "So is this his?" he asked, "Dean."

Pierce smiled at the surprised expression on his suspect's face, as he opened the journal to the last entry that read simply DEAN 35-111 and had been circled several times in red.

The door opened and a deputy called in, "We've just had an anonymous call about shots being fired."

As the Sheriff hurriedly left the room, Dean eyed a paper clip attached to the journal and grinned.

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><p>John slipped the cell phone into his pocket. He stood unseen in the shadows, and watched grimly as his wayward son made his escape from the police station.<p>

With a heavy sigh, he gave a shake as if to wake himself from a deep slumber, then turned and walked away without allowing himself the luxury of a backward glance.

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><p>Dean pulled up in the Impala outside Sam's apartment. Laying the Woman in White to rest hadn't been easy, but it had been a picnic compared to the tense stone-cold silence in the car between the brothers following Sam's stubborn insistence that he stop searching for Dad and go back to college for his interview.<p>

Dean sat and closed his eyes for a moment; his pounding head, feelings of nausea, and sketchy memory of the past couple of hours making him suspect he had a concussion.

Gradually realizing he was alone in the car and that it was now dark outside, Dean sat up, rubbing his face with his hands and wondering just how long he'd been sitting there on his own without Sam. With a strange sense of foreboding, he got out of the car and let himself into the apartment.

As Dean walked cautiously through the unlit lounge he felt his spider senses not so much tingling as screaming at the top of their voices. A door at the end of the hall opened and a sleepy looking Jess walked through, the look of alarm on her face quickly replaced with a beaming smile,

"Sam!" Jess called with great affection in her voice.

"It's Dean," he replied with embarrassment.

Jess' face screwed up in confusion, "What about him?"

Something large and dark lurched towards him, and Dean was lost to unconsciousness.

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><p>Sam lay back on his bed with a sigh of contentment, he had stood up to his brother - it had been tough - and Dean had made him feel as guilty as hell, but he'd done it. Ok, so Dad was still missing, but then he'd pulled similar stunts in the past, and for a lot, lot longer, before he'd returned and started throwing his weight around. There certainly wasn't any great familial love lost there.<p>

The thought was interrupted by a sudden spatter of liquid on his face; Sam opened his eyes and yelled in horror at the sight of Jess hanging suspended from the ceiling, blood dripping from a wound in her stomach. The ceiling behind her seemed to fill suddenly with flames, as Sam lay frozen in terror on the bed. Eyes wide open, but sightless in shock, he distantly heard his brother call him by name and was barely aware of him as he was dragged from the apartment.

As Sam watched the apartment burn he could feel his own heart turn to ash with it. He realized that there was never going to be an escape from his unwanted life of secrets and monsters and pain and death. Part of him wished he'd died in the fire with Jessica, but they were never going to let him go; his brother was always going to drag him back to this so-called life.

"Let's go find Dad," he said finally.

Standing hidden in plain view among the gathered crowds of onlookers who had come to gawp at the unfolding tragedy, John Winchester smiled to himself and waited patiently as the Impala drove away.


	3. Wendigo

******Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain from this. No harm or infringement intended.******

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><p><strong>The Three Faces of Winchester - Chapter Three<strong>

Dean didn't want to show it, and certainly didn't want to discuss it, but he was worried about Sam. It was Dean's role to be the bad-ass protector and his brother had always been the caring, sharing one, but it was as if Sam had burned and buried all his memories and feelings for Jessica.

Dean had tried in his awkward, stilted way to bring the subject up, but Sammy had quickly shot him down, making it clear that this wasn't a topic for discussion; Dean had had his misgivings, but didn't need to be told twice. Sam had then closed his eyes and feigned sleep, and so the rest of the journey had been spent in silence.

They eventually pulled over for a quick bite to eat and a chance to stretch their legs - or rather it was Dean who was famished and demanded junk food, and Sam who'd felt claustrophobic with the need to get out of the cramped legroom deficient conditions of the car.

"Sammy, d'you really think this note might be grid coordinates from Dad?" asked Dean, waving his half-eaten burger at his brother.

Sam referred to his map, "Yes, it's weird, I know, but does Blackwater Ridge mean anything to you?"

Dean couldn't quite bring himself to meet the intensity of his brother's gaze, they were both avoiding acknowledging the inconvenient truth that their father was very obviously ignoring Sam and had only been communicating with Dean.

"No," said Dean finally, "but Dad disappearing, and this thing showing up again after twenty years? It's no coincidence. Dad'll have answers; he'll know what to do," even to his own ears the words sounded hollow.

Sam threw away his untouched burger, "Well, dude, there's only one way to find out I suppose, let's get going we're nearly there."

Dean looked longingly at Sam's discarded lunch, "I guess you're right," he sighed quietly as he climbed back into the Impala.

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><p>The boys arrived at the ranger's station later that day, and started questioning the ranger.<p>

"You aren't planning on going out near Blackwater Ridge by any chance?" asked the Ranger, smelling a rat.

"Oh no sir, we're environmental study majors from UC Boulder, just working on a paper," reassured Sam.

"Recycle, man." smirked Dean, unable to help himself.

The ranger wasn't an idiot, he could tell he was being interrogated, "You're friends with that Hailey girl, right?" he frowned at Sam, ignoring Dean.

"Yes, yes that's right, ranger", Dean looked at the ranger's nametag, "Wilkinson."

Still ignoring Dean, the ranger continued "Well, I'll tell you exactly what we told her. Her brother filled out a backcountry permit saying he wouldn't be back from Blackwater till the 24th, so he's not exactly a missing person, now is he?"

As Dean shook his head in agreement, the ranger acknowledged him for the first time, "You tell that girl to quit worrying, I'm sure her brother's just fine."

Thinking that he might be onto something, Dean turned up the charm a notch, "Actually, y'know what would really help is if I could show her a copy of that backcountry permit, y'know so she could see her brother's return date?"

The ranger grudgingly agreed without any further persuasion required, making Dean wonder what sort of pain in the ass this 'Hailey girl' actually was. Thanking the ranger for his trouble, the Winchesters made their way back to the Impala, and set off for the address shown on the copy of the permit.

Knocking at the door, Dean grinned broadly at the hot girl who answered, before toning it down slightly after reminding himself of the circumstances for his visit, "You must be Hailey Collins. I'm Dean, Ranger Wilkinson sent me over, we wanted to ask you some questions about your brother Tommy."

Hailey looked at him curiously, "Let me see some ID," she demanded suspiciously, looking closely at the fake 'Samuel Cole' ID offered by Dean, "hmmm, that yours?" she asked, looking past Sam to stare at the Impala, "Nice car."

_I think I'm in love_, Dean smirked to himself.

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><p>The next day Hailey was arguing with Roy, the professional tracker she'd hired, about bringing her younger brother Ben along. <em>I've lost one brother, there's no way I'm taking my eyes off him for a second<em>, she thought to herself. _Misplaced, not lost_, she corrected herself sternly.

The guilty self-recriminations were cut short as Hailey watched the fine-looking black Impala pull up and Dean jump out - he shouted something she couldn't quite catch back to the car, then walked towards her while seeming to practically inhale the contents of a jumbo-sized bag of peanut M&Ms.

_Ah, the cut__e fake ranger_, she thought. The guy was more than a little odd, what with his strange twitchy mannerisms, and he obviously hadn't noticed the discrepancy between the name he'd given her and the name shown on the ID. But although she couldn't quite understand why, she had a good feeling about him, and at this stage was willing to accept any help she could get if it meant getting Tommy back.

Hailey watched with mild amusement as Roy and Dean immediately sized each other up and took an obviously intense dislike to one another. _You can almost see their fur bristling_, she snorted.

"So, you're out hiking in biker boots and jeans?" she couldn't resist making a few snidey comments to drop the hint that she saw right though Dean's act.

"Well sweetheart, I don't do shorts," he quipped back, mockingly.

_M__ore's the pity_, she leered to herself. Reluctantly putting aside the mental image, Hailey decided that enough was enough, "Look, I can tell you're not a ranger, so who the hell are you?" she demanded.

Dean blinked at her, Hailey could practically hear the gears turning, finally he answered, "Sam and I," he said glancing back at the car, "are brothers, we're looking for our Dad who's missing and we think he might be here. Then when I heard about your brother I just figured that you and me are kinda in the same boat."

Hailey felt herself soften in sympathy, "Why didn't you just say so at the beginning?"

"I'm telling you now," Dean smiled sheepishly, "besides it's probably the most honest I've ever been with a woman. Ever." He gave her a sad puppy-dog eyes look that melted Hailey's heart, although she suspected it was probably a central part of his pick-up repertoire, "So are we okay?" he asked mournfully.

"Yeah, okay," she sighed at the big doofus.

They continued to hike for some time as Roy led them deeper and deeper into the forest. Dean was relieved to see that Sam had finally put in an appearance. _Of course the Sasquatch would be at home in the woods_, he laughed to himself.

"So what coordinates are we at now?" called Sam.

Roy turned, surprised at the sound of a new voice, then seeing the brothers, frowned in irritation and checked his GPS, "35-111, this is it, Blackwater Ridge."

Within minutes they stumbled into a small clearing and the remains of the encampment, all falling silent at the sight of the torn and blood spattered tents.

Just as they sank to the ground in tiredness, a voice screamed shockingly loud from a dense clump of trees ahead, "Help me! Help me!"

Hearts pounding, the group jumped up as one and dashed off in the direction of the voice. After only a minute they floundered to a halt, looking around in confusion, all sensing the same nameless feeling of dread.

"It sounded like it was coming from here, didn't it?" asked Hailey, not really sure what she meant by 'it'.

When they returned to camp, it was to discover that all the provisions and equipment they'd left behind in their rush to find the source of the screaming, had disappeared like the rapidly fading daylight.

Sam pulled Dean to one side, "I've read about this in Dad's journal – I think it's a wendigo."

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><p>When Dean tried to explain the situation to the rest of the group he was met with a mixture of contempt and incredulity, especially from Roy. Although Dean noticed that they all stayed within the protective confines of the Anasazi symbols, well, until Roy raced off into the darkness after another haunting cry for help.<p>

Against all reason, the others chased after him until the deafening sound of shots being fired echoed through the woods, followed closely by the horrifying shriek of a grown man screaming in terror, before being suddenly cut off.

Hailey grabbed Dean's arm in alarm, "It's okay, let's get back to the camp, we'll be safe there, I promise," Dean reassured her.

Hailey looked at him, hysteria bubbling below the surface, "Roy's gone, if he couldn't kill it, what hope is there for the three of us?"

Dean's answer was lost as the wendigo reared up in front of them, and the group scattered in terror to escape.

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><p>Sam led Ben down the twisting series of tunnels on the trail of the wendigo. Finally they located Hailey, and while Ben cut her down, Sam revived his brother. Dean took charge immediately and within minutes had found both Tommy and a flare gun to use as a weapon against the creature.<p>

Collectively they carried Tommy most of the way back up the tunnel system when the growl of the wendigo echoed nearby sounding increasingly near.

Hailey turned to Dean in concern, "We'll never outrun it," she whispered, not wanting to scare her brothers any more than they were already.

Dean felt his chest rise protectively, "Sammy'll help you get out, I'm going to use this to go after it," he growled, brandishing the flare gun.

Sam felt a sharp stab of anger at being left behind, as the roar of the wendigo sound louder behind them, "I need to go after him," he begged, then gestured towards the mouth of the cave, "Get them out of here, go!"

Hailey look at him strangely a moment, before nodding her sudden understanding and giving him a sad smile.

Sam ran back down the tunnel at full tilt and collided with the wendigo, sending it flying. In the confusion Dean managed to fire the flare gun at point-blank range directly into the wendigo's stomach; he watched in amazement as, within seconds, flames consumed the creature as if it were nothing more than tissue paper.

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><p>Later, back at the ranger station there was a hive of activity in response to the returning survivors.<p>

Ranger Wilkinson glanced over the pattern of Tommy's visible wounds and cast a suspicious look in Dean's direction, "So you were attacked…"

"By a grizzly," interrupted Tommy.

"Yeah, it must have weighed like 800, 900 pounds," added Ben.

The paramedics helped the brothers into the ambulance and motioned towards Hailey.

Hailey signaled she needed a moment, then turned to Dean, "So, I don't know how to thank you," she said sincerely.

Dean gave her a long smirking look.

Hailey sighed, "Must you cheapen the moment?" she laughed.

"Oh, yeah!"

Hailey leaned forward and kissed him long and tenderly on the cheek, then looked him in the eye her expression suddenly a mix of compassion and seriousness, "Look after yourself. I hope you find what you're looking for."

She walked to the ambulance and climbed into the back, "Thank Sam for me," she called gently with a small, sad smile of goodbye.

The paramedic closed the door and a moment later the ambulance pulled away.

Getting ready to leave, Sam checked his cell and realized with a sharp shock that he'd somehow missed a call from his father's number the day before. Shaking from a combination of excitement and fear he listened to what he realized was obviously the original of the message that Dean had played back to him in the diner in Palo Alto:

"_Sam, there's something wrong. I think it's starting to happen again. I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may be a while 'till I'm back. Be very careful, someone rang claiming to be 'Dean'. We're both in danger._"

"Man, I hate camping," exclaimed Dean loudly, appearing suddenly.

"Me too," said Sam automatically, his heart pounding as his discretely tucked his cell away in his pocket.

"Sam, you know we're gonna find Dad, right?"

Sam couldn't help wondering if that was meant as a promise or a threat.

"Yeah I know," Sam answered, his throat suddenly dry. He swallowed audibly, "But in the meantime…I'm driving."


	4. Home

****Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain from this. No harm or infringement intended.****

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><p><strong>The Three Faces of Winchester - Chapter Four<strong>

The Winchesters had spent the last couple of days sitting in the Impala on a stakeout outside the McNeilus factory in Dodge Center, Minnesota, following up on reports of a haunted cement truck.

So far they'd found no signs of anything more supernatural than a couple of adventurous, but bored and horny teenagers.

The brothers were agitated and irritable from the long, unproductive time they'd spent in the car, but Dean had also detected a friction growing between them in the weeks since they'd left Blackwater Ridge. At times he'd felt like he was on his own as Sam had grown increasingly quiet and withdrawn.

Ironically, Sam chose that exact moment to snort loudly in disgust and pull a face, "Dude, your eating habits are atrocious," he bitched as he watched Dean plough his way through a box of Twinkies.

"Yeah, I know, they're just not the same unless they're deep fried," Dean mocked, around a mouthful of vanilla filling.

Sam huffed and stared out the window, "We're wasting our time here. A phantom truck - that's just so lame. We should be looking for Dad."

"I don't think he wants to be found, Sammy. I think he wants us to pick up where he left off, you know saving people, hunting things. The family business."

Sam thought about this for a while, _Is he saying this because he means it, or because he knows I'll just want to do the opposite of what he says and look for Dad anyway?_

"I need to find Jessica's killer, and _this_ isn't helping," Sam begged, gesturing to their surroundings. "Look man, Dad's had twenty years to find whatever killed Mom - it doesn't make sense that he's now suddenly made a breakthrough."

Sam didn't share his full thoughts – that the journal entry pointing them to Blackwater Ridge had also led them blind and unprepared into the path of a wendigo, and had obviously been put into place well before it woke from its sleep – implying that their father had known well in advance that the creature was there.

He remembered the voicemail that he'd listened to half-a-dozen times in secret, before deleting it in a sudden panic that Dean might be watching him and discover it:

"_Sam, there's something wrong. I think it's starting to happen again. I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may be a while 'till I'm back. Be very careful, someone rang claiming to be 'Dean'. We're both in danger._"

Sam couldn't help but wonder if the wendigo had been a trap, created by his father, and intended for his brother. Somehow the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Then only days after the event they had discovered that John's voicemail message had been updated with instructions on how to contact Dean.

_'Family business' or simply more diversion?_ Sam pondered, _And what would Dad think of the dreams I've been having recently?_

Dean wasn't oblivious to the thoughts running through Sam's head - for all that Gigantor was the brains of the outfit, he was also surprisingly transparent at times. _So Sam's finally woken up and realized there's something odd going on, but what's he not telling me?_ thought Dean.

"Okay then, let's get the hell out of Dodge," Dean grinned, trying to lighten the mood, "Man, I've always wanted to say that!

"Let's go home."

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><p>Sam had seemed insistent on doing most of the driving, and given the pissy mood he was in, Dean had left him to it.<p>

Feeling unexpectedly drained, Dean had spent most of the journey dead to the world. He awoke periodically and then only long enough to fuel the Impala and check she was running correctly, and to ensure that Sam ate. It wasn't lost on him that he performed the same function for both his beloved car and his brother.

At long last, although in some ways to Dean it only felt like a matter of hours, they arrived in Lawrence, Kansas.

Sam had been adamant that they should pay a visit to the garage that their father had part-owned until shortly after their mother's death, although he'd been obstinately evasive when Dean pressed him for his reasons.

Posing as police officers investigating John Winchester's supposed disappearance over 20 years ago, they questioned the now sole-owner, Mike Guenther.

"He was a stubborn bastard, and he hated to lose, it was the marine in him," laughed Mike fondly, when asked for his recollections of John.

"But he sure did love his Mary," he said, "and he doted on his boys," he added quietly.

"A man doesn't easily walk away from a tragedy like that. We took him in after the fire, but he was never the same. I'm not surprised he left, I always prayed he'd made a new start and find some kinda peace."

"Did he ever talk about that night?" asked Sam with a slightly glazed look in his eyes.

"No, not at first. I think he was in shock."

"Right. But eventually? What did he say about it?" asked Sam.

"Oh, he wasn't thinkin' straight. He said somethin' caused that fire."

"He ever say what did it?" pressured Sam.

"Nothin' did it. It was an accident - an electrical short in the ceiling or walls or somethin'. I begged him to get some help, but…." Mike trailed off uncomfortably.

"But what?" asked Dean forcefully.

Mike looked up abruptly in surprise, "Oh, he just got worse an' worse. He started readin' these strange ol' books and goin' to see this so called psychic in town."

"Psychic?" Dean asked in surprise, "Do you have a name?"

Mike scoffed, "No, the Bible calls them abominations, and I tried in vain to convince John of that. At the best they're charlatans, at worst devils, and I'll have no truck with them."

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><p>As Sam searched through the phone book for psychics, a name he read out rang a bell with Dean - Missouri Mosely. The first sentence in John's journal reads: "I went to Missouri and I learned the truth".<p>

"I always thought he meant the state," Dean shrugged.

* * *

><p>The Winchester's arrived at Missouri's address to find her showing out a slender man in his fifties with black slicked-back hair and a distinct aura of calm.<p>

"Ms. Mosley, a pleasure as always," he said. As he left he caught Dean's eye and gave him a small smile.

"Goodbye Mr. Thanatos, see y'next time," called Missouri, waving as he drove off in a white classic car that Dean droolingly recognized as a 1959 Cadillac Eldorado. She turned to Sam, "He's one of my long time regulars; nice man, misses his family."

She gave Sam a long, evaluating look, "I can't contact them - I think they're beyond my reach," she continued.

"So why don't you tell him?" asked Sam.

"People don't come here for the truth. They come for good news," smiled Missouri sadly. "So what can I do for you, Sam Winchester?" she asked as she led him into the next room.

She took hold of Sam's hand, "Oh, honey…I'm sorry about your girlfriend. And your father - he's missin'?"

"How'd you know all that?" asked Sam.

"Well, you were just thinkin' it just now," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Well, where is he? Is he okay?" demanded Dean.

Missouri looked at Dean with an intensely piercing gaze as if she had just seen him for the first time.

She smiled sadly, "Y'know, Dean, I knew you when you were just a lil'baby."

Dean frowned, "Sorry, I don't remember," he answered, not quite sure of why he suddenly felt so angry.

"Oh, of course. You were very young, and it was a long time ago," she said sadly, "We were both different people back then."

There was a long strained silence; finally Sam cleared his throat, "So how exactly do you know our Dad?" he asked with barely restrained impatience.

Missouri turned her back to him, busying herself with the paraphernalia of tea making, "He came to see me regarding certain signs he'd noticed in the lead up to y'birth. I never really figured what made him come to me. Back then y'see, he wasn't really what you'd've called a _believer_.

"He came for a reading. And again a few days after the fire. I just told him what was really out there in the dark. I guess you could say…I drew back the curtains for him. Perhaps I could do the same for you?"

"What about the fire? Do you know about what killed our mom?" asked Sam.

"A little. Your daddy took me to y'house. He was hopin' I could sense the echoes, the fingerprints of this thing."

"And could you?"

"Oh, it was evil," she said softly.

* * *

><p>Later that afternoon, Sam, Dean, and Missouri stood at the door at the old Winchester place and put on their best "trust me, I'm not an axe murderer" smiles on their faces.<p>

An attractive, but harried looking, woman cautiously answered the door. She had an air of sadness about her and, with slightly puffy eyes, looked like she had been crying recently. Two young children peered at them curiously from the safety of behind her legs.

"Hello?" she asked.

Dean stepped up to the mark, "Ah, hello there, I'm Dean Winchester - my brother Sammy and I grew up in this house – this here's Missouri she's, ah, an old family friend,"

"I'm not that old!" laughed Missouri conspiratorially.

Dean lowered his head feigning embarrassment, then looked up through his eyelashes - it was a look he'd had some success with in the past, "and I was wondering if it would be okay for us to look around for old time's sake?"

"Winchester? I found some of your old photos in the basement just last night, come on in," Jenny answered, succumbing to the charm tactics.

Inside the house, the three of them moved through to the kitchen. Missouri gave Jenny a long look, "I can see you're upset, but hear me out."

"What are you talking about?" asked Jenny quietly.

"I think you know what I'm talking about. You think there's something in this house, something that wants to hurt your family. Am I mistaken?"

Jenny expression closed down, but the young girl, Sari, piped up, "Mommy? Tell them about the monster in my closet. I wasn't dreaming, it came into my room - and it was on fire."

Jenny visibly wilted under the power of Missouri's gaze.

* * *

><p>After convincing Jenny to take the children and leave for the rest of the evening, Missouri and the Winchesters patrolled the house, checking each room one-by-one.<p>

"It isn't the same energy I felt the last time I was here. It's somethin' different," explained Missouri, finally. She thought for a moment, "Them. There's more than one spirit in this place. I just can't quite make out the second one."

Missouri turned to Sam, "They're here because of what happened to your family. Y'see, all those years ago, real evil came for you. It walked this house. That kind of evil leaves wounds. And sometimes, wounds get infected.

"This place is a magnet for paranormal energy. It's attracted a poltergeist. A nasty one. And it won't rest until Jenny and her babies are dead."

"So whatever is here, how do we stop it?" asked Sam.

Missouri searched through her bag, before pulling out four small gray bundles of cloth.

"So, what's this stuff, anyway?" asked Dean, somewhat suspicious of what to him looked like witchcraft.

"Van Van oil, graveyard dirt, a few other odds and ends," answered Missouri airily.

"Oh, voodoo, yeah? What're we supposed to do with 'em?" asked Dean doubtfully.

"We're gonna put them inside the walls in each corner of the house."

"Punchin' holes in the dry wall? Jenny's gonna love that," Dean snorted.

"She'll live," replied Missouri slyly, with a cold smile.

Sam rolled his eyes, not quite understanding the source of the slight, but constant tension between his brother and Missouri, "And this'll destroy the spirits?"

"Yes, it should purify the house completely, but we'll need to work fast, though. Once the spirits realize what we're up to, things are gonna get bad quickly.

* * *

><p>Just at the point of placing the final juju bag, Missouri heard a loud scraping noise behind her and turned with barely time enough to scream as a table slid across the floor and pinned her against the wall.<p>

As Dean rushed into the room to her defense, a lamp fell from the table and its cord wrapped itself tightly around her throat.

Unable to loosen the cable that was choking the psychic, Dean grabbed the remaining hex bag and, kicking in the plasterboard wall, threw the charm into the hole he'd just made. There was a flash of light and a palpable sense that the spirit had departed.

Missouri got groggily to her feet, "This house is clean," she rasped.

"You sure this is over?" asked Sam doubtfully.

"I'm sure. Why do you ask?" asked Missouri curiously.

"Never mind," he sighed, "It's nothing, just a feeling, I guess."

* * *

><p>Later that night the Winchesters were sitting in the Impala outside the house on stakeout.<p>

"Missouri did her whole Zelda Rubenstein thing, the house should be clean, so why are we still here," asked Dean, while making short work of a 12 inch meat-ball sub.

"I just… have a bad feeling. But I just wanna make sure, that's all," answered Sam evasively.

Sam settled back into his seat and closed his eyes briefly – he felt disorientated as the vision of Jenny screaming at her window that had played out against his eyelids for the last couple of nights, continued in reality when he open his eyes once more.

Dean rushed out of the car and into the house, raising his shotgun when he encountered a fiery spectral figure.

"No, don't! Don't! I know who it is. I can see her now," screamed Sam desperately. At that, a second invisible presence flung him across the room and pinned him against the wall. He struggled against his invisible bonds, but was completely incapable of movement.

The fiery figure flickered, then transformed into the appearance of Mary Winchester in a long white nightdress - she looked just as Sam had seen from the few photos that remained of his mother.

Mary floated towards him smiling, "Sam," her smiled faded, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she whispered sadly.

She turned in the direction of the second presence, "Get out my house and let go of my son," she screamed. She exploded in an immense burst of flames that filled the room with a split second of blinding golden light before disappearing. Paradoxically the temperature plummeted to the point that Sam could see his breath, and he realized that both his mother and the force holding him against the wall were gone.

* * *

><p>The next morning, after a call from Sam, Missouri made a shamefaced re-examination of the house.<p>

"Well, there're no spirits in there anymore, this time for sure," she said bashfully.

"Not even my mom?" asked Sam, hopefully.

Missouri shook her head sadly, "Your mom's spirit and the poltergeist's energy, they cancelled each other out. Your mom destroyed herself goin' after the thing."

"Why would she do something like that?" he asked, his eyes welling up.

"Well, to protect her boys, of course. Listen, Sam, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"You sensed it was here, didn't you? Even when I couldn't."

"What's happening to me?"

Missouri paused, "I know about your visions. I wish I had all the answers, but I don't. But I do know that you should embrace it, and that it's not something you should be scared of," she urged.

Dean motioned impatiently that he was ready to go and made his way to the car,

"See you around," called Missouri, as she and Jenny smiled and waved good bye as the Impala drove off into the distance.

* * *

><p>Missouri let herself into her home and came to a sudden, shocked stop. She stared at John sitting on the couch.<p>

"John," she said carefully, her heart hammering in her chest.

"Y'know, Dean's back," she added when he didn't respond.

John turned his nose up, "I know, I thought I'd taken care of all that nonsense when Sam went to Stanford."

"True, but that boy can't leave well enough alone, it's in his nature to keep scratching at things."

He gave Missouri a dismissive wave and an insincere smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "It doesn't matter, he's not important."

_It's amazing, you'd never guess what a monster he is to look at him_, she thought.

John grinned at her as if reading her thoughts, "So how did it go?"

"I did as you asked. You were right, Mary sacrificed herself to destroy the entity I summoned with the hex bags. She wasn't able to warn Sam," Missouri answered obediently.

She paused, thinking, before continuing, "That boy, he has such powerful abilities. But why he can't seem to sense you, his own father, I have no idea."

"Blood's thicker than water, and my blood's thicker than most," John smiled, his eyes flashing yellow for just a second.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry this has taken so long to update, hope it's been worth the wait though.<strong>

**Please review! (;,;)**


	5. Asylum

******Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain from this. No harm or infringement intended.******

**Thanks to lljn105 for reviewing, and all those who've faved and alerted – you make it worthwhile! (And I'm so sorry I'm such a slow updater) Thanks to FantaPieLand for the fluff, so I can bear to carry on with my MiseryFic…**

**Please hold onto that "willing suspension of disbelief" – I'm sure psychologists don't lead investigations for the CPS, just go with it…**

* * *

><p><strong>The Three Faces of Winchester - Chapter Five<strong>

The Winchester boys had stopped at the Sleep Easy Motel, just outside of Lawrence, for some well earned rest. There is only so much credit card fraud you can get away with, and motels were a luxury they usually only reserved for hunts, but after the stressful events of the last couple of days they felt they deserved the comfort of a proper bed, rather than yet another uncomfortable night spent sleeping in the Impala.

Dean sat on the bed staring sightlessly at John's journal which lay open on his lap, while Sam phoned his way through all of his contacts in the vain hope of some news of their father's whereabouts.

Sam clicked his cell shut with a heavy sigh.

"So, Caleb hasn't heard from him?" asked Dean.

Sam shook his head despondently.

"What about Pastor Jim, you did call Pastor Jim didn't you?" Dean nagged.

"Yes, I called Pastor Jim! And Bobby, and Jefferson, and a dozen other people - not one of them has heard from Dad in at least the last couple of months," Sam snapped in irritation and frustration.

"So, did you find anything in the journal?" Sam asked with a level of sarcasm so high that it seemed to fly straight over his brother's head. Dean had been insistent that Sam should make all the calls so that he could search the journal for any clues they might have missed, and then he'd just sat there gawping off into space.

"Am I just sitting here talking to myself then?" he asked pointedly. When he realized that an answer wasn't going to be forthcoming, Sam added gently, "You know, he could be dead for all we know."

Dean looked up distractedly, "Don't say that. He's not dead. He's... he's..."

"He's what? He's hiding? He's busy?"

Dean was saved the effort of a witty response by the loud beeping announcing the arrival of a message, "I don't believe it. It's a text – with coordinates," he said excitedly.

Sam peered skeptically at the anonymous message which consisted solely of a couple of numbers, "So, what you think Dad's texting us now? The guy can barely work a toaster, Dean."

Dean pulled a face, "Sam, this is good news. It means he's okay. Or alive, at least," he said as he put the journal to one side and started searching on their laptop.

"Okay, so Rockford, Illinois. Let's see what's in the news… Aha, here's a cop, shoots his wife then offs himself after a call to the Roosevelt Asylum."

"I'm not following. What's this have to do with us?" asked Sam in confusion.

Dean pointed to John's journal on the bed where he had discarded it earlier. It already lay open at an old, yellowed news clipping with the headline "Two Die in Asylum Slaying". It went unnoticed that this was the same page that had lain open on Dean's lap since before the text message had arrived.

"Listen, seven unconfirmed spirit sightings, two deaths - 'til last week, at least. I think this is where he wants us to go."

"This is a job? Dad wants us to work a job?" Sam spat in a mix of anguish and anger as he started to pace the room in agitation.

"Maybe… we'll meet up with him, maybe he's there," added Dean, ever the apologist for his absentee father.

"Maybe he's not. I mean, he could be sending us there by ourselves to hunt this thing."

"Who cares? If he wants us there, that's good enough for me."

"This doesn't strike you as weird? The texting? The coordinates? Why'd the number show up as unknown? How do we know it was even really Dad?" asked Sam crossly.

"Sam, Dad's tellin' us to go somewhere; we're going," stated Dean finally.

Sam sighed heavily as Dean left the room.

* * *

><p>A visit to the Roosevelt Asylum had not been particularly enlightening, other than to discover that the Chief of Staff who had disappeared during the riot, which had led to the closure of the hospital, went by the name of Sanford Ellicott. It hadn't taken too long to discover that his son James, who was also a psychiatrist, worked at a private practice nearby.<p>

Dean had been insistent that they should interview James Ellicott, but as he said to Sam, "Guys like me just don't go to shrinks."

So the next day, due to a lucky last minute cancellation, Sam found himself as a new patient in Dr. Ellicott's waiting room.

"Sam Winchester?," asked the doctor giving Sam a strangely intense look, almost as if he were looking for some sign of recognition in his face.

Whatever it was he seemed to find it as, with a cheerful introduction, he motioned Sam into his office and offered him a glass of water. Sam felt slightly disappointed to be ushered to a normal seat instead of a couch.

"Thanks again for seeing me last minute, Dr. Ellicott... Ellicott, that name - wasn't there a Dr. Sanford Ellicott? Yeah, he was Chief Psychiatrist somewhere," Sam said somewhat unconvincingly.

"My father was Chief of Staff at the old Roosevelt Asylum. How did you know?" asked Dr Ellicott blandly. Questions regarding his father's infamous disappearance hadn't even been that common in his youth, let alone now years later. Of all the questions that he thought Sam was going to ask, he hadn't been expecting that, although from what he'd heard perhaps he should have.

"Uh, well, I'm sort of a local history buff. Hey, wasn't there an incident or something in the hospital? In the south wing, right?" Sam answered feebly as he sipped nervously at his drink. The doctor seemed to relax slightly, but didn't look especially convinced, and Sam had a nasty suspicion that he could see right through him.

Dr. Ellicott was experienced enough to know when someone was lying to him or being evasive, not to mention the massive waves of guilty nervousness that Sam was giving off. However, the young man had crossed the line of salt across the doorway hidden under the carpet and had seemed unaffected by the holy water in his drink. Now the doctor had established Sam's identity, he decided it was time to cut to the chase.

"Listen Sam, it's been such a long time, after you called me earlier I needed to be sure it was really you. You do recall that you were a patient of mine - one of my first in fact - when you were five years old?"

"What? I was?" asked Sam in shock.

"You… didn't know? I assumed that's why you were so insistent on seeing me, rather than one of my colleagues," he motioned to his notes, but didn't seem to need to refer to them.

"I had just started working for Child Protective Services at the time, it was before I'd started in private practice. You were found abandoned, severely malnourished, and in a comatose state. You were in my care for almost two months until you were abducted. No one heard of you again… until now."

He handed Sam an old, faded, black and white Polaroid photo – despite the age difference it was clearly a headshot of a very young Sam Winchester. He smiled apologetically, "I'd made a copy of your case file, just as well given what happened to the original records - wouldn't be allowed these days, of course. I've spent most of my professional life wondering what happened to you.

"Do you have any recollection of that period?"

"No," Sam answered, stunned. He could hear his heart hammering in his head, and he felt physically sick. "Tell me," he ordered finally, his voice shaky and hoarse.

"I realize this must be a shock," said Dr. Ellicott soothingly, "As I said, you were found in a motel out on the edge of town. Judging from the state of you and the room, you'd been left with only enough food for a couple of days, but had obviously been there for some considerable time longer on your own.

"It was quite the scandal at the time, as you can imagine. It was reported widely in all the local papers, so you see why I might not believe you when you claim to be a local history buff," he explained pulling a tight sympathetic smile.

Dr. James Ellicott cast his mind back to that memorable day so long ago. He remembered the excitement he'd felt to be on his first call out in the field, fresh from training, and how quickly that had turned into horror…

* * *

><p><strong>1987<strong>

James dismissed the squirrely motel owner with contempt, the man seemed to be blind, deaf, dumb and numb in all extremities for all the good he was in describing the room's now missing guests. He suspected the cockroach of a man been quite aware of the state of the room's occupant, yet had waited until the payment on the room had run out before calling it in.

One of the officers who had first attended the scene came over after a particularly long and intense conversation over his radio, "Well, that's confirmed it; the name 'Elroy McGillicutty' and credit card given are definitely fake. However, over the last couple of years we've had a couple of reports of a John Winchester - tall, dark-haired Caucasian male, military bearing, with a young child in tow, so we think this is our perp.

"Still no sign of Winchester senior, but the boy's in a bad way. I'm told he's only just arrived at Rockford Memorial, he needed to be resuscitated en route – he's condition's still touch-and-go."

Nodding his thanks to the officer, James made his way over to room 113, ducking under the police tape and entered into the mind of a serial killer made physical.

Crossing the threshold into the room his feet crunched over a thick, broken line of white crystalline powder. He knelt briefly to inspect the find, _Salt?_

As he got back to his feet, the first thing that hit him was the smell. The stench of rotten food, stale air and unwashed bodies, with just a hint of bad eggs, was so thick you could almost cut it with a knife. Clouds of flies buzzed lazily around an overflowing trashcan that sat in the corner of the room.

The walls were plastered with a myriad of photographs and multicolored scraps of paper. Many of the notes were handwritten, and although each seemed to have been produced by the same pen, the style of handwriting varied enormously and covered the gamut from neat capitalization to wild flowing scrawl. The content itself appeared to be the ravings of a mad-man, with references to everything from weather patterns and electrical interference to crop circles and demonic possession.

A large leather bound journal sat on the table, on inspection it seemed to contain similar content to that found on the walls, albeit apparently produced over a much longer period. The more James looked at the notes, the more he thought they were the writings of two or more individuals. One was very controlled, possibly the dominant one, who seemed to be very tightly wound and whose writing style represented his repressed emotional state. Despite the oddness of the subject matter, the writer seemed to retain a consistently logical underlying world view and the detached scientific observation that James normally associated with scientific journals.

The other seemed to be chaotic, appearing for only short, but intense bursts of time, and almost passionate in his madness. In an odd sort of way they seemed like an old married couple – a very odd married couple, for sure, but the totally companionable disregard of the other's viewpoint seemed strangely familiar from his internship at family therapy sessions.

As he looked up from the journal there in among the morass of foaming insanity pasted on the wall, one particular photograph jumped out at him… of his father.

James had been ten years old the year his father had disappeared, the year the asylum inmates had rioted. As a trained psychologist himself, he was quite aware that he had spent his whole life trying not to think too closely about the likely circumstances of his father's supposed death, or indeed certain aspects of his father's personality that strongly indicated at, shall we say, somewhat _psychopathic _tendencies.

As a child James had always instinctively known his father was ill, but he'd also known that he was loved, albeit in an intensely fierce way that had made it plain to him that his father hadn't _willing_ disappeared from his life. He'd always thought that it was a little bit like being loved by a raging fire, you felt warm, but you were also aware that you were in danger of being burned alive.

But he couldn't imagine how any parent could leave their child for weeks at a time, or how that child could have managed to survive that length of time without supervision, or at least seeking help.

He wondered what hellish torment the child must have been subjected to that even after weeks of abandonment he was still too terrified to try to escape the captivity of slow starvation in an unlocked motel room?

* * *

><p>At the hospital, James stared down at the prone form of the Winchester boy who'd so far been unconscious for two days on an IV drip without waking. He knew it was unprofessional, but he'd felt strangely protective towards the boy and had stayed by his side the entire time, occupying himself by reading and re-reading the Winchester journal.<p>

The young boy's face was sunken, his eyes dark pits smudged with purple, while his emaciated body was a horrifying mass of cuts, bruises and contortions. The medical staff had been quite clear; none of the injuries were more recent than a month ago, in fact they were all well on the way to healing – or as much as was possible given the boy's shocking level of malnutrition.

James vividly remembered the shocking sight of a hardened battleaxe of a senior consultant with freaking tears in his eyes as he'd explained that based on the pattern of burns and scaring, it was considered highly likely that many of the injuries to the five year old had been repeatedly inflicted over a period of many years, and probably his entire life.

As James watched, the young boy stated to move slightly. When James laid a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder to comfort him, the _howling_ started.

* * *

><p>It didn't take too much longer to match the name John Winchester to a missing persons report filed by a business partner in Lawrence, Kansas. On closer scrutiny it soon become apparent that there were inconsistencies in the report – the same John Winchester was also reported as missing, presumed dead in a house fire some weeks before that.<p>

The report on the house fire was contradictory, the forensic pathology team claiming that the intense temperatures responsible for destroying all but minute traces of human remains could only have been caused by the use of an accelerant - indicating the potential for foul play - which the forensic chemistry department had then stated categorically had not been present, although they could not account for the temperatures detected.

Ultimately it proved only that someone had died in the fire in circumstances which may, or may not have been suspicious.

Based on the age of the boy, and interviews with neighbors, it was conjectured that they were dealing with Samuel Winchester. Initial fears that he would remain unresponsive were soon disproved by James who discovered that the child would _only_ respond to the name 'Sammy', and never 'Samuel' or 'Sam'.

James had also discovered that Sammy was mentally well below the normal linguistic and cognitive level for his age, totally incapable of speech, but surprisingly affectionate given the level of abuse suffered, and obviously starved of human contact.

However, any sudden or unexpected movement would trigger the most appalling howling which sounded like the boy was been murdered, spooked the medical staff, and was usually only resolved with the injection of strong sedatives.

"It sounds just like he's being tortured in Hell," said one nurse uneasily, which unbeknownst to him was possible the most insightful thing mentioned in Sammy's case so far.

James himself was also beginning to question his own sanity; he had studied the Winchester journal with an almost religious fervor, in many cases following up the details in real life. He had been shocked to discover the kernel of truth hidden in each described event. Some of the people he had talked to had clammed up tighter than a drum, but others had cheerily asked him to pass on their best regards to John.

Then one evening, nearly two months after being found, Sammy suddenly spoke.

"Daddy? Is that you?" he asked, in the tone of developmentally normal five year old.

"Sammy? It's me, James," spoke the doctor in quiet excitement at witnessing the child's sudden recovery.

"Not Sammy, Sam!" frowned the child in annoyance, "Where's Daddy? Bad man's coming, yellow eyes!" he called, kicking his legs in fear.

"It's alright, he's not here, he can't hurt you anymore," James reassured.

"Well, that's not quite true is it?" laughed a deep male voice behind him, as James was thrown violently across the room.

As James climbed groggily to his feet, he looked up at his assailant. He recognized John Winchester from the photographs in the police record, but with one major difference – John's eyes shone with an unnatural, bright, luminescent yellow color.

The tall figure raised his hand in a strange gesture, and James felt himself physically dragged half way up the wall and held immobile by an unseen force.

"What's up, Doc?" quipped John, "Come on Sam, time to go."

The boy jumped out of bed and scooted across the room to his father.

John meanwhile retrieved his journal from where James had dropped it prior to the attack, and flicked through it quickly as if checking that the contents were all in place. Stopping at the page of the Roosevelt Asylum he looked up at the doctor.

"Your father," he smiled, "he was one of mine."

James felt a sudden blow to his head, as darkness claimed him.

When he awoke an hour or so later it was to discover that both father and son, and all official records of their presence both physical and electronic, had disappeared.

* * *

><p>Dr. Ellicott looked up at Sam, blinking rapidly as his mind came back to the present, "I'm sorry," he said, "very unprofessional, I feel like I'm laying my baggage at your door."<p>

Sam sat stunned beyond words at everything he had heard.

The doctor took a deep breath, "In my line of work I hear a lot of things and a handful of times they've been… unnatural and I've tried to help," he paused almost nervously.

"I know you're a hunter," he continued, "and I probably don't have the right to ask this, but please, you obviously think there is something at the Asylum. If it's my father, please, I beg you, lay him to rest…"

Sam nodded, reassured to finally be back in familiar territory.

"Tell me what you know," he rasped.

* * *

><p>"Look after yourself," Dr. Ellicott said sincerely, "and if you ever need someone to offload to then I'm always here."<p>

He brought both hands up in a double hand shake. He paused, staring at the scars on the back of Sam's right hand.

"Someone's looking out for you? Or are you seeing someone already?" he asked intently.

"My brother Dean, he's a real mother hen," laughed Sam,

Dr. Ellicott blinked twice, "Right, of course. Promise me you'll come back for another session," he urged insistently.

Sam smiled and nodded. He was lying.

* * *

><p>With the information from Dr. Ellicott junior the salt and burn at the Asylum had been a successful and relatively straightforward hunt, although the details of Sam's hospitalization and the description of what sounded like their father's demonic possession had been a difficult subject for the brothers to deal with.<p>

"I don't understand this, Sam," complained Dean, "I don't remember any of this happening. And we know Dad's not possessed. I mean, we grew up with the guy, you think we would've noticed?"

"I don't know Dean, you still would've been awful young, and maybe it wasn't possession. Maybe it wasn't Dad? The yellow eyes thing doesn't sound like any demon I've ever heard of. P'rhaps it was something else?" Sam suggested tentatively.

Dean shook his head to clear the confusion, "We need to find Dad, he'll set this straight," he said determinedly. "I'm starving," he continued, needing to change the subject, "I need a bacon cheeseburger, want anything?"

Sam rolled his eyes and huffed in response.

* * *

><p>On his way back to the motel room, happy after two bacon cheeseburgers and a large side of curly fries, Dean watched the tall dark figure step out menacingly from the shadows and stop in front of him.<p>

"Oh man, if you're going to try to mug me, you're gonna seriously regret it," groaned Dean, reaching for his gun.

The figure took a step closer into the light, and Dean's eyes widened in astonishment when he realized it was his father.

"You're Dean, aren't you?" asked John, managing to make it sound less like a question and more like a statement.

Dean blushed and nodded in embarrassment, bewildered by his father's strange behavior.

John glared at him, his eyes flashing yellow for just a moment, but just long enough to leave no question of doubt in Dean's mind that he was talking to something that was somehow otherworldly and yet somehow still his father.

"Just you stay out of my way. Our Sam's got a great shining future ahead of him, and I don't want you interfering with it."

Dean looked at him blankly.

"I mean it. Whatever you are, if you know what's good for you, you'll stop Sam looking for me until I'm good and ready - just keep him on with the hunting, do I make myself clear, boy?"

"Yes, yes sir," Dean stuttered in fearful confusion.

"Glad to hear it. I got rid of you once before with all that Voodoo gris-gris nonsense, and all that consorting with lower beings just makes me irritable. The sooner we wipe them off the face of the Earth the better.

"Now you're not going to remember this conversation, but you will remember these instructions," said John, touching Dean on the forehead with his first and second finger. Then with a sound like flapping wings John was gone.

Dean looked around in momentary confusion. _This hunt for Dad's a bust_, he thought, _time to move on to the next hunt – Dad would want us to wipe those evil bastards out_.

* * *

><p>Sam had bitched and moaned about going to see the nearby Anderson Japanese Gardens once he'd seen the signs for it on the drive out of Rockford, and even though he considered it to be the height of ridiculousness, Dean had finally relented just to shut him up, and because when it came down to it, he could never really deny his brother anything.<p>

Dean walked slowly and silently through the grounds before coming to a sudden halt. As he stood gazing, strangely mesmerized by the bronze angel statues that were suspended in the air over the beautiful garden, Dean had the sudden sense that someone was looking out for him and immediately felt more relaxed and calm than he could ever remember feeling before.

* * *

><p>A couple of months later and the cell phone rang early one morning, waking Sam from a deep slumber.<p>

"Dean, get the phone," called Sam grumpily.

When there was no response, Sam sleepily reached across and retrieved the phone himself.

"Hello?" he answered blearily.

He sat up in bed suddenly wide awake.

"Dad?"

**A/N: I've implied that James Ellicott suspects that the marks on Sam's hand might be "Russell's Sign" – scarring on the knuckles caused by making oneself sick, a possible symptom of an eating disorder. I'm not likely to take this any further, but two good fanfics dealing with anorexia I've read recently are 'Thin' by Winchesterforlife, and 'Catch me when I fall' by Jensensdarklover.**

"**When Sammy Howls" was the original title I'd intended for this story. Only took five chapters to get there!**

**While I was Googling the details of Rockford (see, I suffer from procrastination so badly it's almost life threatening) I discovered the Anderson Japanese Garden – it sounds beautiful and although the statues are mentioned, it was difficult to find a picture of what they look like. I'm not sure the scene works, but since they inspired a sudden plot lurch in the story I really wanted to include them.**


	6. Scare go

****Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain from this. No harm or infringement intended.****

****Thanks to lljn105 for the reviews, and everyone who put an alert on this story - I can't express how much it helps motivate me to carry on writing when I find myself struggling!****

* * *

><p><strong>The Three Faces of Winchester - Chapter Six<strong>

**Previously:**

_A couple of months later and the cell phone rang early one morning, waking Sam from a deep slumber._

_"Dean, get the phone," called Sam grumpily._

_When there was no response, Sam sleepily reached across and retrieved the phone himself._

_"Hello?" he answered blearily._

_He sat up in bed suddenly wide awake._

_"Dad?"_

* * *

><p>Sam sat up in the motel bed, running his hand through his sleep mussed hair, while talking to his father on his cell phone.<p>

"Dad, is that you? Are you hurt?"

"Sam," his father sounded relieved, "I'm fine, what about you?"

"We're fine, Dad. We've been looking for you everywhere, where are you?"

John gave a deep sigh before answering, "Sorry, Sammy, I can't tell you tell that. You're gonna just have to trust me."

Sam felt his brother's sudden presence at his side, listening in, as he asked "You're after it, aren't you, the thing that killed Mom?"

John cleared this throat, "Yeah. It's… it's a demon, Sam," he said, his voice catching.

"A demon? Really, are you sure?"

"Oh, yeah," he laughed humorlessly, "Listen, Sam, I… I also know what happened to your girlfriend. I'm sorry, son, I would've done anything to protect you from that, but I think I'm close to finding a way to kill it."

"Let us help!"

There was short pause followed by another deep sigh, "Listen, Sammy, that's why I'm calling - you gotta stop looking for me, alright? Now, I've got a job for you, I need you to take down these details," John answered urgently.

"Dad, talk to me, tell me what's going on," Sam begged.

"Listen, I don't have time for this. This is bigger than you think, they're everywhere. Even us talking right now, it's not safe."

"No! Alright? No way," Sam argued, he'd spent months searching for his father, and he'd be damned if he just let him disappear again without a fight.

"Give me the phone," interrupted Dean insistently.

"I have given you an order. Now, you stop following me, and you do your job. You understand me? Now, take down these names," barked John in irritation at having his authority questioned.

"Dad, it's me. Where are you?" asked Dean, having wrestled control of the phone from Sam.

John paused, his mouth suddenly dry, "Ah, I need you to go to Burkitsville, Indiana. It's the common stopping off point for a number of couples who've gone missing around this time every year."

"Yes, sir. What're their names?" responded Dean obediently, taking down the details.

"Let me speak to Sam," John ordered tersely after the note taking was completed.

Sam took back control of the cell, giving his father a sullen grunt in response.

"Listen, Sammy. It's really important that you do as I ask. And do me a favor, hey? I'm worried about… just, just keep your eyes open, okay son?" to all but the ears of a son who thought he knew better, John sounded shaken and deeply concerned.

"Sure thing, Dad," Sam reluctantly agreed, rolling his eyes.

* * *

><p>Later, in the car on the way to Indiana, the brothers had been arguing about the choice of destination.<p>

Sam was sulking, he'd recognized from the caller ID that their father was calling from a Sacramento area code, and so he was all in favor of heading off for California and searching for their dad. Dean had just scoffed at the idea, and had laughingly asked if Sam was just going to drive around on the off-chance he might just accidentally bump into their father. The fact that he realized Dean was right had only wound Sam up even more, and if anything had only made him more determined to do things his way.

"We should be going to California. If this demon killed Mom and Jess, then we should be there, we should help," fretted Sam.

"Dad doesn't want our help, he's given us an order," said Dean absently, concentrating on the road.

"I. Don't. Care. We don't always do what he says. And what's wrong with you anyway? You're even more pig headed about doing what Dad says than usual."

The brothers had then proceeded to say, without thinking, a number of very hurtful things to each other that they both immediately regretted as well as struggled to remember afterwards. Before he was quite aware of what he was doing, Sam had pulled the Impala over to the side of the road and was rummaging for his backpack from the trunk, all the while shouting that he was going to California by foot if necessary.

"Don't be such a girl, Samantha," mocked Dean, slamming the trunk shut, "Don't be stupid, I'm going, I mean it, I _will_ leave your ass here, y'hear me? Sammy, please?"

But Sam had already gone.

* * *

><p>Arriving at last in Burkitsville, Indiana, Dean's stomach growled long and loudly at its need for food so he pulled over at the first diner he found, a Mom and Pop style affair. He felt strangely alone without Sam's presence - in the last months they'd spent every moment together, like conjoined twins, inseparable as when they were children. <em>Apart from when Sam went to college<em>, he thought with dread as an unexpected chill ran up his spine.

He pulled out his cell phone and just looked at it, thinking about calling Sam, but not knowing what to say to close the gap that had seemingly grown between them since they'd been hunting for their father. Finally he changed his mind and snapped closed the phone, shut off the car and got out.

The locals as it turned out were even more creepy than the townsfolk in the horror pulp comics he and Sam had learned to read from as children, and having driven through miles upon miles of dry dust-choked fields it hadn't taken long to realize there was something unsavory going on in the vast fertile apple orchards that were still being harvested _in April_.

Dean sat in the car watching over the orchard looking for any sign of trouble, stomach for once groaningly full from the truly epic quantities of apple pie he'd consumed. Finally, not able to keep his eyes open any longer, he slipped into a heavy slumber.

* * *

><p>Sam walked along the long empty road, the atmosphere dry and airless. He was almost in a dream state where he felt like he could have equally been walking for many years or merely minutes.<p>

Slightly ahead of him, Sam saw a fellow hitchhiker; a pretty, petite young woman with a blonde pixie-like haircut. She had an innocent, yet strangely sultry look about her. Not seeing her headphones he called a greeting; when she didn't respond he placed a hand on her shoulder, making her yelp loudly in alarm.

"You scared the hell out of me," she hissed, as she spun round. She practically did a double take as she looked up, and up, taking in his appearance.

"Oh, sorry, sorry," replied Sam apologetically, holding his hands up, "I just thought you might need some help."

"No," she said sounding slightly sarcastic. She seemed to catch herself, "I'm good thanks," she added with a smile.

Sam suddenly felt awkward, "So, er, where're you headed?"

"No offense, but no way I'm telling you that, you could be some kinda freak. I mean, you _are_ hitchhiking," she answered.

"Well, so are you," replied Sam slightly defensively, not quite sure if she was teasing him or not.

The blonde woman laughed, and at that point a van pulled over, its driver offering her, but not Sam, a lift.

Sam waved goodbye and carried on walking.

* * *

><p>A couple of hours later and Sam finally arrived at the bus station, there is, he realizes, a disadvantage to his great height; the seeming reluctance of any passerby to offer him a lift, and he pondered briefly on the perceived causal relationship between size and serial killers.<p>

Sinking gratefully into one of the uncomfortable plastic molded seats Sam soon recognized blonde-pixie-hair woman from earlier, "You didn't get very far," he said coming up behind her and making her yelp in surprise.

"So when you're not following me around and scaring the life out of me, where are _you_ off to?" the young woman asked while jokingly holding her hand to her heart,

"California. I'm meeting up with my Dad," explained Sam.

The woman blinked in surprise, "Me too," she said, "Not seen the old man in an absolute age – but in that case we're both out of luck, the next bus to California isn't until tomorrow afternoon. I'm Meg by the way."

"I'm Sam," he said with a broad grin, while thinking that there was something about her that just seemed to 'click'.

* * *

><p>Sam and Meg had pooled their cash and bought themselves a wide selection of drinks and snacks to help while away the time as they settled themselves down in the dubious comfort of the waiting room to wait for the next California-bound bus.<p>

"So are you on vacation?" asked Meg, not really interested, just making conversation.

"No, I had an argument with my brother and walked out," admitted Sam shamefacedly.

"Older, yeah?" asked Meg, and when Sam nodded in confirmation, she continued, "I have a twin brother who's barely a minute older than me, but I swear he seems to see that as an excuse to boss me around and try to control my life."

Meg looked up in sudden realization, "Hey, I thought you said earlier that you were going to see your Dad."

Sam groaned, "I walked out on _him_ about four years ago when he tried to stop me going to college instead of joining the family business."

Meg winced in sympathy, "What about your Mom?"

"She… died when I was just a baby, it's… complicated," Sam said sadly.

"Sorry, I should know better than just to assume," said Meg awkwardly, filling the silence, "I never knew my mother either, she died in childbirth."

Meg gave a long sigh, "My father, he never got over her, she was the great love of his life, but his family hated her and thought she was beneath him. My grandfather's a real old-fashioned patriarch-type – not that I've ever properly met him – he cast my father out. Even after my mother died, he still wouldn't take my father back or accept me and my brother.

"I love my Dad and all, but he definitely has a temper like his _own_ father – not that I'd ever dare tell him that - and he can be really controlling. If he says 'Jump', then you better be asking 'How high?' on the way up," she laughed humorlessly, "I swear I could write a book on my family issues."

Meg took a deep breath, seemingly surprised by her own admission, "Phew, I'm sorry. The things you say to people you hardly know."

"No, no, it's okay. I know how you feel. My family, it's kind of the same deal," reassured Sam.

"Well, here's to us. The food might be bad, and the beds might be hard," she said slapping the back of the plastic seating, "But at least we're living our own lives and nobody else's," she declared as they clinked beer bottles in agreement.

* * *

><p>Sam had spent much of the night thinking long and hard about how similar his situation was to Meg's and yet, no matter how bad the disagreement, he knew he couldn't just turn his back on the brother that had always been there to protect him as a child. He tried phoning Dean again and, receiving no answer for at least the fifth time in as many hours, proceeded to leave yet another message.<p>

"Hey, our bus just came in," called Meg, busy gathering her things together.

Sam stood slowly, pulling on his backpack, "You better catch it. I gotta go," he sighed.

"Go where?" Meg frowned, perplexed at the unexpected answer.

"Back, to Burkitsville. I've been trying to call my brother for hours and I'm just getting his voicemail", Sam explained apologetically.

"So? Maybe his phone's turned off?" she scoffed.

"No, that's not like him. Meg, I think he might be in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"I can't really explain right now. I'm sorry. Look, I don't want you to miss your bus."

"I don't understand, you're not making any sense. You're running back to your brother because he won't pick up his phone?" Meg spat angrily, before closing her eyes briefly and seeming to take a calming breath, "Sam, please, come with me to California. Please…" she begged.

"I can't. I'm sorry."

"Why?" Meg asked, her eyes glistening.

"He's family."

* * *

><p>It's not long before Meg's abandoned the bus, and is instead hitching a ride with another shady van driver who can't keep his hand to himself, when she feels the physical pull of a summons from her father.<p>

It doesn't take much in the way of acting ability to encourage the van driver to pull over. Before he realises what's happening, Meg has slit his throat and collected his blood in a bowl she's pulled from the depths of her shoulder bag. A brief Latin incantation later and she's talking to her father via satanic telephone.

"Sorry Father, I failed you," Meg apologized. If she could still have truly experienced the depths of human emotion, she'd have being feeling cold dread right now.

"Getting rid of Dean would have been a nice to have, but keeping Sam out of California is for the best at the moment," replied a deep gravelly voice from the bowl, sounding uncharacteristically philosophical, "I'm having problems getting through to my vessel – things are not quite ready.

"But the delays may have worked to my advantage. I think I'm getting nearer to the Colt."

"That's a risky course of action," Meg answered in surprise at the good news.

"It's not without its dangers," agreed the voice, "but if it comes into my grasp the benefits would be immense. It would seem that the pieces are all gradually falling into place."

* * *

><p>Dean's sole purpose in life had been protecting his younger brother, and he's not about to let an argument derail that. Once he'd cooled down, it had been an easy task to track down Sam's likely whereabouts. He approached the woman behind the ticketing window in the bus depot.<p>

"Hello, there. I'm Special Agent Kirk Hammett, FBI, and I'm conducting an investigation into the disappearance of a young man. I'm going to need to see your CCTV recordings," said Dean, flashing a fake ID.

Minutes later Dean was ensconced in a tiny, hot office and fast-forwarding through the film of the last couple of hours of bus travelers.

From the tapes, he soon recognized the gargantuan-sized figure of his brother talking at length with a young woman. Dean watched with growing unease as he realized that some sort of electrical distortion obscured the faces of both Sam and his companion throughout each recording.

Feeling nauseous, Dean headed to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. As he looked up at himself in the mirror, he suddenly caught sight of his reflection as it truly was.

Running his hand through his long dark hair, Sam turned away from the mirror, and stepped out into the light of day and the long walk back to Burkitsville. He had a good feeling he was going to find his brother.

* * *

><p><strong>Phew, finally. Still, I guess I had to let the cat out of the bag at some point.<strong>

**In the show it becomes obvious over time that Meg was just feeding Sam a line about her family, I wanted to see what it would be like if she was more truthful – although for the same ends – and also make her family more central to her character and the plot.**


	7. Faith

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain. No harm or infringement intended.**

**As ever, thank you for setting favourites/alerts - I must be doing something right! **

**The idea of **_**"Why do terrible things happen to good people?"**_** just kept coming up everywhere I turned over the last couple of weeks of writing this. Then the unspeakable happened yesterday, and my heart grieves for the deaths of some many - and as a parent, for so many ****_young_**** - in the attacks in Norway. **

**The Three Faces of Winchester - Chapter Seven**

**Previously: **

_From the tapes, he soon recognized the gargantuan-sized figure of his brother talking at length with a young woman. Dean watched with growing unease as he realized that some sort of electrical distortion obscured the faces of both Sam and his companion throughout each recording._

_Feeling nauseous, Dean headed to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. As he looked up at himself in the mirror, he suddenly caught sight of his reflection as it truly was. _

_Running his hand through his long dark hair, Sam turned away from the mirror, and stepped out into the light of day and the long walk back to Burkitsville. _

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>Why do terrible things happen to good people?" <strong>_

"_**He who does not punish evil, commands it to be done.**_**" Leonardo da Vinci**

Sam had made his way back to Burkitsville where he had finally managed to meet up with his brother. Dean had initially been a little standoffish, although he didn't say anything to Sam, he was still freaked by the video footage; in fact he been in such daze that he couldn't even remember the drive back in the Impala.

Luckily, there was nothing quite like killing a fertility god masquerading as a scarecrow to bring kin closer together - truly a family that hunts together stays together - and the brothers had formed an unspoken, albeit still uneasy, truce and moved onto their next hunt.

This had turned out to be a rawhead, not a creature they'd encountered before, but all of Sam's usual diligent research had indicated that electrocution would be a particularly effective means of killing it. And so it was that Dean found himself chasing the rawhead through a flooded cellar when, having almost cornered it, he slipped and the monster doubled back and turned on him.

In a moment of pure unthinking madness, Dean had fired his specially customized Taser into the creature before it could tear at his flesh with its razor sharp teeth and claws. A moment too late he realized that he was half-reclining an inch-deep in water with the same beast he'd just shot. Dean felt a massive blow to his chest and found himself sliding down the wall on the opposite side of the room.

When he came to, all he could smell was an overpowering stench of a combination of wet dog, burnt hair, and roast pork. He felt totally rung out, like every last ounce of strength had been drained from his body. Somehow he managed to drag himself up and out of the cellar and out on to the street, before a sudden overpowering wave of giddiness overcame him and he felt himself start to fall. Mercifully he was already unconscious by the time his head forcefully struck the sidewalk.

Blearily Dean drifted in and out of near-consciousness over several days, until finally he woke once more to find himself in a hospital room. He'd had an eventful life and so strange unexpected black outs, and waking up in new and unusual environments, was not exactly unknown for him. This was usually thanks in part to a fondness for hard liquor and the occasional case of concussion, but he did normally get the odd flash of memory or at least some sense of movement. But this felt… serious.

After another period of haziness that could have been minutes or hours, a doctor was rounded up to give him the bad news; thanks to the electrocution he now had a severe heart condition and with that had a very high likelihood of a soon and sudden death. Dean took the information with his usual brand of calm stoicism, firmly pushing the momentary flash of panic he'd felt deep down – his own version of a mental salt and burn.

He sank back in the hospital bed closing his eyes and just lay there feeling strangely numb. For several long moments it felt as if he was slipping away from reality.

_Sammy_ became suddenly aware. Feeling abandoned and unprotected he was absolutely petrified. Not knowing what to do, he started to sob uncontrollably. A familiar presence was suddenly at hand and so reassured that his protector had finally returned, Sammy slipped back into his endless peaceful slumber.

Dean sensed, rather than heard, his brother's return even before he spoke.

"Dean, I came as soon as I could," said Sam, his voice small and liquid sounding.

"It's alright, Sam. It'll all be alright," Dean lied comfortingly.

* * *

><p>Later the next day Dean signed himself out of hospital and retreated to a motel room like an injured animal ready to die.<p>

Sam knew that it was his brother's nature, even unconsciously, to protect others from hurt, especially at the expense of Dean's own happiness, and he could definitely feel his brother pushing him out in a misguided attempt to protect him.

In desperation Sam turned to his father for help and reassurance, but, as usual, ended up with the answer service.

"Hey, Dad. It's Sam here. I've got some bad news... it's Dean. He's sick, and the doctors say there's nothing they can do," said Sam, his voice cracking. He felt angry because he'd promised himself that he would be strong and that he wouldn't start sobbing again when it came to trying to explain the situation to his father.

He took a deep calming breath; _I gotta be strong for Dean_, he reprimanded himself.

"But they don't know the things we know, right? So don't you worry cause I'm gonna do _whatever_ it takes to get him better," he promised forcefully.

* * *

><p>While Sam never heard back from his father, he did fulfill on his promise much sooner than he could ever have possibly imagined when he discovered Roy Le Grange.<p>

Almost before Dean was aware of what was happening, Sam had driven them across three state lines to somewhere in backwater Nebraska, and so he wasn't particularly impressed to find their final destination was a large white tent hosting a faith healer.

Dean's mood did lift somewhat when an attractive blonde called Layla caught his eye, but before he could say more than a few flirty words, her presumably sick mother had dragged her away and Sam had insisted that they sit in a different section toward the front of the tent.

Within minutes Dean's smart mouth had drawn the attention of the preacher. Roy was astounded – he had been doing the good Lord's healing work for a long time, but he had never sensed anyone quite like the young man in front of him – his soul oddly twisted, or _doubled_? It was almost like that of a pregnant woman near to term, but with startling bright flashes of light under streaks of dark – like a halogen lamp shining through a dirty window. He knew instantly that he would be healing this man today and so called him to the stage.

As Roy roused the congregation in prayer, Dean felt an odd uncomfortable pressure in his chest and a bone-numbing chill that made the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. An intense wave of dizziness overtook him, making him crumple to floor at the healer's feet.

Feeling short of breath and with an overwhelming sense of anxiety, he was suddenly able to see a cadaverous old man with white hair and in a black suit standing beside Roy. The old man was staring straight at the preacher, glowering at him malevolently, before turning his gaze onto Dean with a look of surprise, as if not quite sure what to make of him.

The spirit, or whatever it was, vanished and so too did the crushing pain in the center of Dean's chest as slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>Dean awoke in a local hospital, wondering at what point exactly he'd become a chick, all this fainting he'd been doing recently was getting <em>old<em>.

The examining doctor gave Dean a full, clean bill of health and was astounded at first at the apparent miraculous recovery, although it wasn't long before he decided that the original diagnosis must have been wrong.

Dean was naturally skeptical, as good things just don't happen to Winchesters. So when a young nurse let slip that a young, well-known local man of previously perfect health had died of a heart attack it set Dean's spider senses tingling.

With some help from Sam, Dean found it didn't take much digging to find that the name of the young man was Marshall Hall, and that he had died unexpectedly of heart failure at exactly the same time as Dean had made his own miraculous recovery.

A quick Google found a headline "Openly Gay Teacher Wins Lawsuit" and an uploaded YouTube video entitled "It Gets Better". Dean watched Marshall explain how high school can seem like an unending walk through a desert of loneliness, bullying and despair. Marshall went to say that it was just a phase, unlike his homosexuality, that it had a definite end date and would one day pass to become nothing more than a distant bad memory.

Dean's eyes glistened and he gave a single manful sniff in case Sam should be watching him. His own school experience had been tough, albeit for different reasons. He had often felt overwhelmed with the responsibility of looking after Sam, he'd felt alienated from the other kids, and he had always thought he had no one to turn to. He realized now that although he'd been reluctant to talk to his father given the nature of their relationship, he could always have talked with his brother, Pastor Jim, or even Uncle Bobby.

He wished he'd had someone like Marshall to give him hope. The man had made a stand for what he believed in, even though it had made his own life more difficult, in order to give help to others. In his own way the man was a hero.

Dam rubbed the bridge of his nose trying, and failing, to ease away some of the sorrow and tension that he felt.

It was then that Dean decided that he needed to return to the preacher for an explanation.

* * *

><p>"Why? Why me?" demanded Dean. He looked around the faith healer's tent and gestured at the crowd who all seemed to share the same look of desperation on their faces.<p>

"Out of all the sick people who come here and actually believe in God, why'd you choose to save me?" asked Dean, his voice tight.

The preacher paused, then smiled sympathetically, "Well, like I said before, the Lord guides me. I looked into your heart, and you just stood out from all the rest."

"What did you see in my heart?" asked Dean, confused, thinking for a moment that the Reverend was speaking literally.

"God took my eyes, eyes that for most part people never truly see with, and instead He gave me a gift to look, really look, into people's souls," Roy tried to explain.

"I looked into your heart and, despite that wiseacre mouth of yours, I could see that you were _special_. I saw a young man with a great and holy purpose, a _righteous_ job to do, one that's barely even started.

"It's not so much that I asked God to heal you, as _He_ commanded me to do so."

* * *

><p>Dean broke into the church that night. He just couldn't accept that he might be worthy of special attention, and the idea of somehow being chosen by God absolutely freaked him out. He knew his lot in life, and it was easier for him to believe that there was something wrong about the faith healer, than that the universe had suddenly decided that Dean Winchester deserved a break.<p>

Sam stayed quiet, not really knowing what to say, and in all truthfulness he knew that growing up he'd always just expected his older brother to look after him, to keep him safe, and to protect him from….

He didn't finish the thought, distracted by the discovery of an altar of obviously dark magic.

The preacher's wife, Sue Ann, appeared in the doorway. "Get away from there," she screamed in anger.

Undaunted, Dean swept the contents of the altar to the floor with a single determined swipe of his arm. As the spell broke the spirit of the old man appeared, although he seemed very slightly less aged than before. From her gasp, Dean could tell that the preacher's wife could see him too.

"What have you done?" Sue Ann cried at Dean in horror.

"Please," she begged the spirit, who seemed to be rapidly aging in reverse and now looked to be in his seventies, "Take me, but spare my husband, he's a good man. He does the Lord's work."

"He _was_ a devout and pious healer intended for sainthood," said the spirit in sorrow, now looking like a man in his sixties, "but he's corrupted by association. He knew in his heart that something was wrong, but his love for you made him turn a blind eye to your evil."

Sue Ann's face showed the horror she felt in her heart, everything she had done had been for the greater good, she had been so sure that she was chosen and had been carrying out God's plan.

"Hypocrite, you dare claim to know the will of God, and instead you use Him to justify your own petty insecurities and prejudices," accused the reaper reading her mind.

Moaning in horror, anguish and even remorse for what she had done, Sue Ann made no move to stop the reaper from ending her life.

The Reaper, now looking like a man in his forties, turned on Dean and stared at him intently, "Thank you for freeing me," he said sincerely, "All I can offer in return is this: the players on both sides of the board determined that you should live. An innocent man had to die to make this happen - that should tell you something about the morals of those involved," he hissed before disappearing.

* * *

><p>The following morning found Dean standing outside the faith healer's tent, debating what, if anything, he should tell the reverend.<p>

Layla came out suddenly, shaking, her eyes full of tears, "Hey," she called to Dean.

"Hey, you okay?"

Layla nodded, "He finally called me, and laid his hand on me, but... nothing happened."

She took a deep, shuddering breath, "I feel ungrateful… Did you hear his wife died? Stroke."

Dean nodded, "Yeah, I heard. He doesn't deserve what's happened."

Layla gave a single hiccup like sob and Dean instantly, instinctively, drew her into a hug and just held her for a long moment.

"It must be rough. To believe in something so much, and have it disappoint you like that," he added gently.

Layla took a ragged breath and stepped back from the embrace, looked up at Dean and gave small, grateful smile.

"If you're gonna have faith, you can't just have it when the miracles happen. You have to have it when they don't," she said sadly.

* * *

><p><strong>"<em>I believe in the sun even if it isn't shining,<br>I believe in love even when I am alone,  
>I believe in God even when He is silent."<em>**

**-Author unknown **


	8. Nightmare

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain. No harm or infringement intended.**

**Based on S01E14: Nightmare - Sometimes even the most perfect seeming things can contain a hidden heart of darkness. Warning: References to abuse.**

~#~

**The Three Faces of Winchester - Chapter Eight**

Sam slumped onto the motel bed in exhaustion, he felt guilty that for the last couple of weeks he'd just seemed so tired all the time, when it was his brother that had been injured and on the verge of death.

"Sorry Dean, 'm so tired," he mumbled.

"Don't worry, Sammy. I'll still be here when you wake up," Dean smiled.

Reassured, sleep soon claimed Sam and within minutes the nightmare started.

~#~

He was standing outside a house he'd never seen before, but that somehow seemed familiar. A car pulled into the garage, and Sam felt compelled to follow it, just in time to clear the door that was already closing. He stared at the license plate, his brain grabbing hold of it and telling him that this was an important detail.

The driver was in his late-forties, and again Sam felt an odd flicker of recognition that he somehow knew this man who was a stranger to him. What Sam at first mistook for symptoms of cold he soon realized was the shivering of fear, but this in turn was replaced by anger that grew to an incandescent rage that burned so hot he was amazed he didn't burst into flames.

His muscles twitched, and although his arms and hands didn't move, the car doors locked and the key in the ignition turned re-starting the engine. There was no doubt in Sam's mind that he had made these things happen. The familiar-stranger made a feeble fumble at the car door as the exhaust fumes filled the interior, the sour taint of whiskey on the man's breath perhaps explaining his inability to escape.

Sam watched in numb acceptance - all the while a forgotten and buried core of burning fury screamed in righteous victory - as the man choked out his final breath and the light in his eyes faded as death took its grip.

~#~

Sam snapped back from sleep and jumped out of bed almost in a single motion, like a spring pulled back almost to its breaking point and released. He tried to throw his few possessions into his duffel, but the adrenaline was pumping so hard in his veins that he struggled to hold anything when his hands were shaking so much.

He woke Dean and tried to explain what he'd seen in his vision. Although his brother didn't really seem to understand, Sam had had a lifetime to learn the right buttons to press to get his own way. So it wasn't long before they'd traced the owner as Jim Miller - from the car registration Sam had seen - and they had sped their way across country to Saginaw, Michigan.

They arrived just in time to join the rest of the neighborhood who had gathered outside the house to watch as the paramedics wheeled a body from the garage.

Devastated to have arrived too late, Sam hovered on the edge, lost in his own thoughts as Dean slipped through the crowd and picked up the gossip from those who'd been watching the scene unfold.

"Well, the consensus seems to be that your Jim Miller was a good, upstanding family man who kept to himself and didn't cause any trouble. Police seem pretty certain it was suicide since the car was running and the keys were still in the ignition when they found him," Dean reported.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked, as Sam gradually came back to him.

Sam remained silent, he _knew_ it wasn't suicide. It _had _to be something supernatural and he had a terrible feeling that this was something to do with him. _There must be a connection, why else would I have had the vision?_ His stomach lurched, _Am I somehow responsible for this happening?_

"No way, man. There's no way you did this - even if you _could_ have done this," Dean said, interrupting Sam's thoughts.

Sam looked up with a questioning expression, he hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud, _Maybe I am losing my mind._

Dean worked his jaw, almost as if he was physically chewing his thoughts, "Look, no one knows you better than me, bro. I raised you when Dad wasn't around and I _know_ you couldn't have done this, so just chill. We'll figure this out, okay?"

"Thanks man," said Sam, knowing how difficult it was for his brother to talk about his feelings.

"Come on, let's go. We'll come back in the morning."

~#~

From her vantage point across the street, Meg stepped back into the shadows when she saw an agitated-looking Sam arrive outside the Miller household.

"Well, well, now what brings _you_ here?" she wondered aloud, amused by the irony of seeing him here, given that her failure to entrap Sam was pretty much the reason she'd been assigned to the Millers in the first place.

She swore under her breath as her cell phone chose that precise moment to go off. Seeing who the caller was she decided to risk detection and take the call.

"Hello Tom," she answered, walking a little down the street, but staying close enough to keep an eye on the house.

"Hey, Sis. Heard they'd let you out," he said, sounding a little choked.

Meg nodded, forgetting she was on the phone, but she was too overcome to quite bring herself to speak.

"So, what name you going by these days?" he asked, knowing that his sister often liked to change her name to better 'fit' her vessel. Since her first death she'd refused to answer to her birth name arguing that that woman was long dead and gone.

"Meg. It's the vessel's name, she's a wannabe actress - you'd like her. Where are you?"

"Trying to track down John Winchester... _again_. Can't say I'm having very much success, if I didn't know better I'd think he wasn't human - the man seems to have a supernatural ability to sense me coming. Talk about easily spooked!" there was an awkward silence before he continued, "Hear you're assigned to the son?"

Meg sighed, "On-and-off. Actually, he's just turned up here unexpectedly. I don't understand him at all. He's pretty enough to look at, but he's all over the place, talk about fucked up. You've been following yours for years, is it a Winchester thing?"

Tom just chuckled in response.

"Yeah, well, nearly got him a couple of weeks ago, but... Did you know there was another son?" she complained.

"Hmm, I think I read that somewhere," he said, sounding like he was sorting through pages and Meg could practically hear him frown down the phone, before he continued, "Ah, yes, but he's not pure bloodline, so he's not worth worrying about"

"Yeah, well, thanks for pre-warning me," she griped.

"You had access to the same info I do, if you will insist on rushing off half cocked..."

"Oh shut up, you're the one with half-a-cock," she laughed, and for a time it was like the memories of long ago before their lives and souls had been ripped away from them.

"I heard there was a problem, he almost died?" Tom said after a moment, feeling like he was walking on egg shells.

Meg took a deep breath determined not to lose her cool so early in the conversation, "That's not fair, I wasn't even assigned to him at the time, Father said I should let him go."

"Yes, well, Father has a convenient tendency to blame others for his poor decisions."

Millennia of self-preservation meant Meg couldn't help but suck in a hiss of alarm and look up and down the street to check she wasn't being observed.

"I guess I'm only lucky Winchester sorted it out for himself then," even now the fear and relief were clear in her voice.

"I don't like to think how Father would have punished you, you were lucky."

Meg forced a laugh, "Yeah, it was kinda like having your car taking _itself_ off to get a service."

"So, what are you up to now?" Tom asked in seriousness.

"Hmm, mainly watching Daddy's test subjects implode. None of them seem especially stable so far, they seem to self-destruct just before they're ready for use. The Winchesters seem to be the only viable blood line so far, and of course they're all spoken for now."

"We should try to meet up. I wouldn't mind a chance to see this Winchester before the Boss starts wearing him. And to catch up with my little sister, of course," Tom added hurriedly.

"Oh, you old charmer you," she teased, before turning serious, "I've missed you, Tom," she winced in embarrassment at the desperation sounding so clear in her voice.

"Let's meet halfway then... How about Chicago?"

"Okay," she agreed, "let me finish up here first. I got hold of a new summoning ritual I'd like to put to the test and I'll try to think of some way of attracting their attention. How long till you can meet me there?"

"I reckon by the end of the month."

"Okay, it's a date," she said trying to keep her voice light.

"I missed you, Sis. I'm sorry for... y'know. But soon we'll be together forever." Tom answered in a voice low and thick with emotion,

Meg hung up, not bothering to answer, _I'm a demon, I am_ _**not**_ _going to cry_, she lied to herself.

~#~

The next morning Meg was back at her post spying on the Millers when she spotted the Impala. She was soon on the phone to Tom under the pretext of considering her next move.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," she laughed to herself, at the sight of Sam dressed in priestly attire.

"Sorry I gotta go, I gotta get a picture of this..." she apologized as she hung up and snapped a photo on the phone, before sending it through to her brother.

A moment later he sent a text back, "LOL gr8 blakmal materil IF u dared use it!"

She chuckled, she was amazed her brother could even use a phone, let alone send a text.

~#~

Disguised as priests, albeit ones most people would have assumed had barely avoided flunking out of seminary school, the brothers had managed to speak to the late Jim Miller's brother, Roger, as well as Jim's widow, Alice.

Both had seemed upset, but blandly reassuring that nothing out of the ordinary had been happening. They seemed the very definition of everything normal, safe and dull about suburban life.

Frustrated at the lack of progress, Sam grabbed the plate of mini-sausages that Dean had been methodically working his way through, "Will you stop stuffing your face with this crap," he lectured giving his best bitch face.

Dean looked hurt for a fraction of a second, but then snagged another sausage and made a point of shoving it in his mouth and chewing loudly. Sam felt nauseated just watching and scowled at him.

"I wonder if I could use your bathroom?" he asked to fill the awkward silence when he realized that Alice was staring at him. He smiled when a bemused Alice directed him to the facilities upstairs which gave him the perfect excuse to have a snoop around.

~#~

Sam stepped from the bathroom wiping his mouth, as he looked at Dean's EMF detector; it was pretty conclusive that there was no evidence of anything supernatural.

Deciding to call it a day, on the way out Sam stopped off to speak to the son, Max, a young man about his own age who, like his mother, reported a normal, happy family life.

"Normal, huh?" Dean grouched afterwards, "The guy practically had the words 'Guilty Liar' in flashing neon on his forehead. It's obvious there's a lot more going on here than meets the eye."

Sam wasn't convinced and fobbed him off, but Dean didn't like it and although he couldn't admit it to himself, there was something he had found strangely threatening about the odd little guy.

~#~

Meg had hovered outside, trying to peer in and figure out what was going on, when Roger had suddenly opened the door and scowled at her.

Taking a deep breath, Meg put on her best and broadest smile, "Hi, I'm Meggie Cleary, I'm a friend of Father Ralph over there..." she chirped, pointing at Sam who was too deep in conversation with Max to notice her.

Roger grunted, ignored her offered hand and let her in without a second glance, as he made his way back to the poor comfort of the liquor cabinet.

"So sorry for your loss," Meg smirked, using her demonic sight to admire the strangulating bonds of shame and depravity that were garroting his soul.

She carefully worked her way around the room to keep out of sight until Sam was gone, then made a beeline for Max. It could be that Max's murder of his father was accidental, that he couldn't control his power, but she needed to be sure.

"Hi, cousin," she said in way of greeting as she pushed at him a little with her dark grace to confuse his mind and befuddle his senses. As she handed him a drink doctored with her own unique special ingredient, she could sense him teetering on the edge of insanity, so ploughed on.

"Yeah, I was talking to your Uncle Roger, I know he and your father haven't really gotten along in recent years - what was it they fell out about exactly?" she asked, watching him like a hawk as he drained his drink nervously.

"I guess at least you'll see more of him now. Your Mom was just saying what a great _comfort_ he's been," she continued, luxuriating in the scent of fear pouring off of him as he babbled lies of polite agreement.

_Oh, the sweet scent of torment of an innocent victim_, she could almost taste his self-hatred and humiliation from dreading the abuse, while still craving the attention he didn't otherwise receive.

She recognized the pattern she'd seen so many times before. He would have been too young to understand what was happening to him at first, but as he grew older and started to realize the wrongness of it, the crumbs of affection thrown his way would have been enough to make him blame himself for the abuse he'd endured and secure a lifetime of self-loathing and shame. _What a beautiful, vile cocktail of negative emotions. Twist him and send him to Hell and it'll be pain and despair to feed on for decades_.

As she watched him make his excuses and rush from the room, she knew it would only be a handful of hours before he killed again.

~#~

Later that evening while trying to research the Millers, Sam was felled by a colossal pain in his head that felt like his brain was shattering. _This is it, I'm actually dying_, he thought as he lost control of his body, his limbs started to spasm and foam flew from his mouth.

Dean looked on in terror, he wanted to help, but he seemed frozen in place with fear.

Sam tried to call out to his brother, but the world faded away from around him and he found himself waiting outside an unfamiliar apartment.

He flinched in fear as a figure passed by him until he realized that he recognized the man as Roger Miller. His body moved under its own volition and he found himself following the man into what was presumably his home.

Sam felt himself pass invisibly by the man and lift open one of the windows. Against his will he held the window fast as Roger tried to lower it, then slammed it down hard when Roger foolishly put his head under it. As the blood exploded towards him, he came back to himself in his own motel room.

At Dean's insistence Sam had first showered and changed, his face burning with shame the whole time. Then they had rushed to Roger's apartment in an attempt to warn him, only to have him slam the door in their faces. Mere moments later he was killed exactly as Sam had foreseen in his vision.

Still no closer to an explanation they drove back dejected to their motel.

"I'm scared, Dean. So now I'm seein' things when I'm awake? And man, is it painful," Sam grumbled, fighting a rising hysteria.

"Come on, Sam, it'll be alright. You'll be fine."

"What is it about the Millers? Why the hell is this happening to me?" Sam bit his lip in worry, each vision had seemed to have him playing an active, if unwillingly, role. _Am I making this happen somehow?_

"I don't know, Sam, but we'll figure it out, okay?" Dean tried to reassure his brother. He didn't mention that he'd already considered that it might be Sam, but it just made no sense for his brother to target the Millers, if anything _he'd_ make a more likely target.

In a way Dean was glad they hadn't found their father yet, because as much as he wanted him back, he felt it prudent to sort this out first.

John was not known for his patience with anything not 100% human and Dean felt a chill at the realization that his father might insist they kill Sammy, rather than accept that a member of the Winchester clan might be a monster.

"It's never been in the family like this. Tell the truth, you can't tell me this doesn't freak you out," Sam continued, breaking Dean's train of thought.

"This doesn't freak me out," said Dean, freaking out on the inside. He'd wondered for a while what the Reaper had meant by 'the players on both sides of the board'. He'd always felt like the middle ground for the stormy relationship between his father and his brother, _Was the Reaper talking about Sam and Dad?_

_So whose side am I supposed to be on?_

~#~

They returned to the Miller household the next afternoon, Max answered the door, and reluctantly let them in.

"So, how you holdin' up?" asked Sam.

"I'm okay," said Max. Sam wondered if the young man was medicated to sound that calm and emotionless.

"So, your Dad and Uncle were close?" asked Sam more to fill the awkward silence.

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, they were brothers. They used to hang out all the time when I was little."

"But not lately much?"

"No, it's not that. It's just-we used to be neighbors when I was kid. And we lived across town in this house, and Uncle Roger lived next door, so he... he was over all the time."

"Right. So, how was it in that house when you were a kid?"

Max adopted a trapped expression, "It was f-fine. Why?" he asked, wiping at his mouth.

"All good memories? Do you remember anything unusual? Something involving your father and your uncle, maybe?" asked Dean

"What do you-why do you ask?" Max asked, tripping over the words and confused by the sudden aggressive tone.

"It was just a question," Dean said, the hostility quite clear in his voice. There was just something _monstrous_ about Max that turned his stomach.

"No. There was nothing. It was a dream, we were totally normal. Happy," Max sounded like he was reciting from a well-rehearsed script.

"That's a... good. Well, you must be exhausted. We should take off," said Dean, getting himself under control.

"Right. Thanks," added Sam in an apologetic voice.

"Er, yeah," answered Max, showing them out with palpable relief.

~#~

Having noticed how scared Max had seemed at the mention of the old house, they decided to pay it a visit, expecting a haunting or at least a presence of some description. What they found was far worse and unfortunately more prevalent.

Sam noticed an older man working outside the house opposite was keeping a close eye on them while sweeping the leaves from his lawn. It didn't take too much of Sam's brand of full-on, earnest politeness before the man opened up and shared his reminiscences of the Millers.

"Oh yeah, I remember them," the man answered sourly, "The brother had the place next door."

He gave Sam an appraising glance, "So you're finally here about that poor kid?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, trying to keep his voice non-committal.

"You're from CPS, yes?"

Sam had to think about which pocket that ID was in, but the neighbor didn't notice the hesitation. The man nodded to himself as he inspected the badge, "Yeah, you had that liberal do-gooder look about you, no offence."

"None taken, sir," Sam said in his best professional voice, glaring at Dean's poor attempt to smother a chuckle, "Now what can you tell me about Max?"

"Oh, well, he was always a strange child. Wouldn't want him looking after your pets, if you know what I mean?" he smiled slyly.

He coughed and carried on when Sam didn't respond to the joke, "Well, in my life, I've never seen a child treated like that. The man was one mean ol' drunk, used to hear him cursing from across the street. He used to beat the tar out of the boy."

Sam had a sudden flashback of his father's face, lips curled back and screaming obscenities at him.

"And this was going on regularly?" asked Sam, shivering at the sudden chill wind.

"Practically every day. And that creepy brother of his was just as bad. They had some sort of major falling out and they moved away separately, and I'm pretty sure it was over the boy. I was glad when they went, I could let my kids play out front again," it didn't take much for Sam to read between the lines to understand what the man was hinting at.

"And that stepmother was a waste of space - she'd just stand there, never lifting a finger to protect him."

Sam was struck by an early memory of his brother that played-back unbidden in his mind. It must had been just after he'd been snatched away from James Ellicott, the doctor who had shown him that there were people in the world who could bring kindness, who would stand up and try to protect him from pain. Dean had stepped in to stoically take the first of what would be many beatings that had been meant for Sammy. At the time it had seemed like he hadn't seen his brother for a long, long time, but from that point on he'd always felt safe, warm and protected by Dean, cocooned from the terrifying events going on around him.

"Isn't it a little late for you guys to be turning up now?" the man's voice sounded far, far away to Sam's ears.

"Now, you said stepmother?" Dean asked, detecting his brother's discomfort and stepping in once more as a good, older brother should.

"I think his real mom died. Some kinda accident," the man's words were like a discordant bell that echoed around inside Sam's brain making him cry out in pain.

"Are you okay, there?" the neighbor asked in concern, as Sam clutched his head and started hyperventilating.

"Yeah," Sam answered in a painful gasp.

"Thanks for your time," said Dean, this time taking firm control and rolling his eyes at yet another example of Sam's recent insistence on doing things for himself.

~#~

Dean walked them back to the car, just in time before Sam was struck down by another vision, this time of Max using some sort of psychic ability to kill his stepmother with a kitchen knife.

"This whole time I thought it was me, but it wasn't. Somehow Max is like me, but I'm seeing these things through his eyes," gasped Sam, recovering from the pain of the vision, as he explained the rest of his vision.

"He's nothing like you, Sam" Dean added absently, as he drove the Impala back to the Millers. He was just relieved that it wasn't Sam, but the psychic ability still made him uncomfortable, "Max is a monster, he's already killed two people, and it sounds like he's gonna kill again."

"Yes, but you heard what the neighbor said about the abuse he went through."

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam's protests while grabbing his gun from the glove box, _Oh, man, Sam'd defend the devil given the chance, maybe it's the lawyer in him? And aren't they all s'posed to be headed straight to Hell anyway?_

~#~

Max looked up from the argument with his stepmother to see the strange priest from earlier come bursting through the door.

The more he looked at the so-called priest, the more he couldn't believe he could have been so taken in. His mind couldn't quite encompass the truth of what he saw in the frightening vision of the apocalyptic future that seemed to swirl all around the tall man in front of him. It was like watching a vortex of light and dark encased in a human body. It _almost_ made him feel sorry for the fake priest, but he knew at that moment he was doomed and he'd be damned if he'd go down without a fight.

Sam desperately tried to reason with Max, "Look, what they did to you growing up-they deserve to be punished."

"Growing up? Try last week," Max laughed, lifting his shirt to show a painfully thin torso stripped with countless scars, cuts and bruises, "He blamed me for everything. For his job, for his life, for my mom's death."

"Why would he blame you for your mom's death?" asked Sam with a sick feeling of déjà vu.

"Because when he was drunk he'd say I had the devil in me, that when I was a baby I burned my mom on the ceiling of my nursery. He always said the beating would drive the demons outta me, that it was for my own good."

Sam paled in shock and excitement of a possible lead back to his own past, "Listen to me, Max. What your dad said about your mom is real. It happened to my mom, too. "

Max's face twisted in fury as he misunderstood Sam's meaning, "No, it's _not_ my fault. I still have nightmares about what they did to me! I'm sick of being scared all the time."

With a wave of Max's arm, Sam found himself flying through the air and crashing into a closet. A moment later the door slammed closed and a bureau shifted itself across the floor to block him in.

~#~

Sam groaned in pain as he held his head, this time suffering from an actual physical injury. He was unsure if he'd been unconscious for seconds or hours, but within moments of regaining consciousness he was overwhelmed with another vision, this time the image was different - more blurred and indistinct. Sam found he couldn't concentrate on the details like before - it was more like a series of ideas than something he could actually _see_.

He _knew_ that Alice was in danger and that the gun was going to be used on Dean. He _knew_ he'd hear a shot and the thought made a scream build up in his throat. As it burst into life, the door exploded outward with such force that it flew off of its hinges.

Sam ran out in time to see Max pointing Dean's gun at Alice, "No, don't! Please, Max. It's not gonna fix anything," Sam begged.

Max stared for the longest time at the strange mix of pulsating, demonic-energy swirling around Sam that was so at odds with the kindness of his words. Whatever he did changed nothing ; he was trapped in a nightmare and it seemed to make no difference if his eyes were open or not. _I'm so tired, I just want it to stop. What's the point of running when there's nowhere to run to?_

"You're right," he said with a small smile that didn't reach his eyes, "It's not."

Without warning he pushed the gun up under his jaw and fired, dropping dead to the ground.

~#~

Sam paused as he walked to the car, wracked with guilt, "If I'd just said something else, I'm sure I coulda gotten through to him somehow."

Dean huffed in irritation, "Don't torture yourself, man. It doesn't matter what you said, Max was too far gone. He was a monster."

"You should've seen how he looked at me, y'know, right before... I should've done something."

"Oh come on! I mean, yeah, maybe if we had gotten there twenty years earlier."

"Well, I'll tell you one thing - we're lucky we had Dad," said Sam intensely.

Dean felt a momentary flicker of unease and a vague, recent memory of his father shouting at him in a motel car park. He shivered, dismissing the thought, covering it with a laugh, "I never thought I'd hear you say that."

"A little more tequila, a little less demon-hunting, and we would've had Max's childhood. All things considered, we turned out okay - thanks to him."

Dean stared in numb disbelief at his brother, wondering at how little Sam sometimes seemed to remember of their childhood, "All things considered," he swallowed, letting it go.

"Dean, I've been thinking," Sam continued, not noticing his brother's discomfort.

"Well, that's never a good thing," Dean joked, trying to lift the mood.

"I'm serious. I've been thinking-why would this demon, or whatever it is, why would it kill Mom and Jessica and Max's mother, you know, what does it want?"

"No idea," Dean answered curtly. He'd already given this more than enough thought recently, and wished his brother would just drop it.

"Well, you think maybe it was after us? After Max and me? We both had abilities, maybe it was after us for some reason?"

"Sam, if it wanted you, it would've just taken you, okay? This is not your fault. It's _not_ about you."

"Then what is it about?"

Dean was barely able to hiss his answer through teeth gritted with rage, "It's about that damn thing that did this to our family. The thing that we're gonna find, the thing that we're gonna _kill_. And that's _all_."

"Actually, there's, uh, somethin' else, too," added Sam, feeling understandably nervous following Dean's tirade, but not quite able to stop himself.

"Oh, jeez, what?" Dean asked, eye-rolling to Heaven for strength.

"When Max locked me in that closet, that big cabinet against the door-I moved it. Like Max."

"Oh. Right," Dean said, playing it cool despite the sharp chill of terror that chased up his spine and made the hair at the back of his neck stand up. Once again he thanked God that their father wasn't there to hear this. _How can I choose between them? Oh please God, please don't make me have to choose._

"Well, I'm sure it won't happen again," he added, making the hope sound like an order.

Sam nodded, "Yeah, maybe. Aren't you worried, man, aren't you worried that I could turn into Max or something?"

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, _Whyn't you just ask me to gank you already, it'd be quicker?_ In that moment he chose his side. He steeled his expression, "Nope. No way. You know why?"

"No. Why?"

"Cause you've got one thing that Max didn't."

"Dad? Because Dad's not here, Dean."

"No. _Me_. That's what I'm _for_. And as long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you."

~#~

Meg shoved Alice Miller's cooling body to one side with distaste as she swirled the woman's blood in the bronze chalice and whispered a dark incantation over it.

"Well, it didn't turn out the way intended, but I just received your package," her father's deep voice echoed gruffly from the cup.

"There's enough guilt and anguish to feed on for a while, and when we're done with him he should make a fairly powerful demon," he continued, actually sounding _pleased_ for once, "And getting the Winchester boy to do it was a nice touch. Well done girl, you did okay."

"Thank you, Daddy," she said respectfully, giddy to be the recipient of such high praise.

When he instructed her to get closer to Sam, Meg decided it was definitely time to meet up again with Tom.

~#~


	9. Shadow

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain. No harm or infringement intended.**

**Based on S01E16: ****Shadow**** – "**_**Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you**_**" – Maori proverb.**

**Warnings: Swearing. Non-Wincest implied references to incest.**

~#~

**The Three Faces of Winchester - Chapter Nine**

The brothers were passing through Chicago and decided to hit the bar scene, it wasn't often they found themselves in a city and they felt it was about time they had a well-deserved treat.

So it was with some surprise that within minutes of visiting the first tavern, Sam recognized Meg sitting at the bar. She gave him a broad grin of recognition; it was obvious she was pleased to see him.

"I thought you were headed to California?" asked Sam, puzzled.

"I was, I still am," smiled Meg, "This is just a little stop off on the way. Anyway, what happened to you? Did you meet up with your brother?" she asked.

Sam smiled, "Yeah. Yeah, I did and things are a lot better, thanks."

Meg went stock-still all of a sudden, her eyes focusing in on Dean like a hungry cat on a mouse.

He stepped back, shocked at the extreme look of hate he saw in her eyes.

"You went back to him," she said in disbelief, shocked to discover the _nature_ of the brother, "after everything you told me about him ruining your life and bossing you about the whole time."

Dean felt as if someone was squeezing his heart and it was like he couldn't breathe. He realized with absolute horror that he was almost on the verge of bursting into tears. There was something about this woman that he just knew was... _evil_. And his beloved Sam, his _Sammy_, had been bad-mouthing him, to _her_.

He clenched his fists hard and drew down a deep breath, narrowing his eyes as he unleashed the anger of every opportunity he'd missed, and every joy he'd sacrificed in his life because of protecting Sam.

"You poisonous bitch," he growled, "Stay away from my brother."

"Well, now, I think that should be Sam's decision, don't you?" she smirked, walking away.

Dean was outraged, but felt frozen with paranoia as he wondered what on earth his brother must have been saying about him. Sam, on the other hand, was suspicious of the coincidence of bumping into her, plus her rather strange behavior. It was like she had wanted to provoke an argument between him and Dean.

"Pay no attention to her, Dean. When I first met her it was like we just seemed to click, like we somehow had a connection or something in common, but..." Sam started to explain.

"You have _nothing_ in common with that skanky ho," Dean interrupted, his voice shaking.

~#~

Meg stood in the window looking out in to the black of night. She knew that Sam had followed her to the apartment. With such a large frame she imagined it must be difficult for him to try to blend in to the scenery. The revelation of the nature of his brother had been shocking, she wondered which one was currently out there.

Wanting to get him all worked up and unbalanced she made sure to make a good show of undressing in full view of the open curtains; she had already made sure the room was well lighted so he would get a good look at her. She found herself wondering if he would stare, or turn away in shy embarrassment, and where those large hands of his might roam.

She shivered as she imagined that it was Sam's tender and gentle hands running across her body, stroking her, removing her clothing.

Meg was suddenly hit with the sickening realization that she was yearning for some form of human contact, even it was merely lustful, and she felt a mix of shock and disgust like someone had thrown a bucketful of freezing vomit over her.

Her eyes turned black in black as she stormed to the window and pulled the curtains closed with a single, angry motion.

"Troubles?"

Meg whirled round at the unexpected voice, holding her blouse up in front of her, and glared at the young man standing in the doorway.

"Tom, you're early. Why are you here?" she asked, more strident than she'd intended. If she was angry before, she was incandescent now at being caught emoting.

"Oh, don't cover up on my account," he laughed. With a significant look, Meg let the blouse drop from her hands.

The man made a long, lingering show of looking her up and down, "Hmm, nice meat suit, sis. Wanna bump uglies?"

Meg rolled her eyes, but gave him an appraising look in return, "Maybe later. Now answer the question."

"Father's anxious to get his vessel back."

Meg sighed as, just like that, a perfectly good mood was ruined, "I'm not the one that lost it in the first place."

"Hmm, well you do keep letting his son slip through your fingers though, don't you? I mean _cannibals_, really?"

"I've got it under control," she answered, feeling defensive.

"You were supposed to have _him_ under your control by now, or are you losing your touch?"

"Is it my fault that the guy's a fuckin' gentleman? Besides, it turns out he's a lot more like his father than anyone suspected."

"Oh? _Oh!_" he said, catching her meaning at the last moment, "Well, that's... unexpected, how many others are there in there?"

"Just the one I've seen so far - a very protective, _older_ brother."

"_Older_ brother? I thought you meant the _other_ one. Oh fuck, this just gets worse, are _upstairs_ involved?" Tom asked, as the blood drained from his face.

"You think I'd still be here talking to you if they were?"

"Well, they do move in _mysterious ways_," Tom laughed and Meg snorted in response, "Did you tell father?"

"Oh, what do you think?" she answered, her voice thick with sarcasm.

"Hmm, well it's his game plan. So what are you going to do?"

"What I always do - drive in a wedge and break up the happy family. Or kill them," she smiled, as she lay back on the bed.

~#~

Sam waited for about half an hour before he spied Meg leaving the building under cover of darkness and walk a short distance to a warehouse before slipping inside. He watched her from the shadows until he was left in no doubts as to her involvement in something supernatural and satanic.

Sam texted his location to Dean's phone and almost before he'd pushed send, his brother was at his side.

"What d'ya find?"

"Definitely something wrong, I snuck inside and there's all kind of ritualistic paraphernalia."

"Huh?"

"It looks like some kind of black altar," Sam huffed.

"Whyn't you just say so then? So what, she some kind of witch?"

"I _can_ hear you talking, you know," said Meg, her voice all sweetness and light, as creatures of evil and darkness grabbed hold of Sam.

"Oh crap," said Dean.

~#~

As Sam gradually came back to consciousness he could hear Meg talking to someone. At first he assumed it was a phone call, but as his vision returned he realized she was talking into a large bowl of what looked like blood.

The sense of the words escaped him and he couldn't hear the reply, but he had a feeling she was talking about him.

To his shame, a low groan escaped as the bump in his head started to throb, bringing Meg's attention back to him.

"Welcome back to the living," she greeted, "Enjoy it while you can," she smiled.

She ran inquisitive hands over his body, making Sam squirm with embarrassment.

"Don't panic, sweetheart," Meg laughed, "Just checking I've not done you any lasting damage. And anyway, it's not every day I get to grope a celebrity."

Sam threw himself forward, head butting Meg in the face, her nose crumpling and exploding in a shower of blood under the sudden impact. Sam's mouth filled with the taste of copper as he glared at her feeling nothing but utter hate and contempt. Meg's eyes widened in horror as her body shook in a series of violent fits, and thick black smoke started to leak out of her mouth.

The rope bonds loosened and fell away from where Dean had been working on them with the knife that he kept tucked in his boot and that Meg had overlooked.

With one long arm, Sam swept the contents of the altar to the floor. The shadows in the room shivered as they were released from their enslavement, then made a concerted attack on their former mistress.

Meg didn't even managed to take in enough breath to scream, before her body was hurled through the window to fall to a crumpled heap on the ground several stories below.

~#~

The brothers burst into their motel room in a state of agitation, unsure of what had happened to allow them to escape.

Once Dean flipped the light switch it took a moment to realize that there was someone who had been waiting for them in the darkness of the room.

"Dad," cried Dean in utter delight as he threw himself into a short, but tight hug. Sam stood by feeling shy and then just plain awkward when his father didn't respond to him.

"Son, I should have known you'd see the same signs as I did," said John, the pride clear in his voice.

"Signs?" asked Dean perplexed.

"Yes, all the reported murders of people who were born in Lawrence."

"Ah, of course," lied Dean, just overjoyed to bask in such rare praise from his father, even it was undeserved.

"So where have you been?" asked Sam, not quite able to keep the petulant tone out of his voice.

"Hunting the demon," answered John, "I'm sorry, I needed you to keep your distance while I tried to work out its end game. I think it's getting desperate - it knows I'm near to finding a way to kill it."

He placed his hands on Sam's shoulders, "But no matter how much I hide, it always seems to find me and I think it may have sent someone after you."

Sam shrugged and twisted out of his father's hold. In the excitement of seeing his dad he'd felt jealous when Dean had got a hug and he hadn't, but now he'd had time to calm down he found that he didn't much care to be touched by someone he had _so_ many unanswered questions about.

"There was a woman, Meg. I thought she was a witch at first, but it was weird - like she suddenly started to exorcise herself," said Sam, going on to describe how he had met Meg and what had taken place at the warehouse.

"I wouldn't mind seeing this altar," said John frowning at the unexpected news of a _female_ demon, "There might be some way to figure out who she was talking to. And you say you met her while _hitchhiking_?"

"That's right," muttered Sam, feeling awkward about the specifics of the argument with Dean he'd already skipped over.

"What was wrong with the car that you went to college in? That you took _without asking_, I might add."

"Dean and I kinda had a bit of a falling out, and I walked off."

John went pale and his eyes glistened as he took a deep sigh, "Oh Sammy..."

"Don't call me that!" screamed Sam, a sudden humming like static filling his head.

"I'm sorry, Sam, I'm sorry," John apologized, pulling his son into tight embrace, stroking the young man's back until the shivering ceased. After a couple of minutes John watched with sadness as his son pulled away from him again. "So, have you seen much of Dean since you left for Stanford?" he asked, treading with care.

Sam frowned at his father, then looked round and rolled his eyes when he realized that Dean had gone, _He never did like it when Dad and I argued_, he thought.

"Not for years," admitted Sam, feeling a little sheepish, "But we've been traveling together ever since you pulled your disappearing act."

It was John's turn to look shamefaced.

"Tell me, Dad, was he in on it with you? Cause there were a couple of times I wondered if he really wanted to find you at all."

John looked up the shock clear on his face, "Who, _Dean_? You mean he's... he's not here... right _now_?"

Sam gave a single huffed breath in response, "Are you serious?"

"Sam, you _are_ in danger. You're not... well, but there are things happening that I don't understand, and in the meantime you're safer on the move. For the moment please, just trust me."

"Tell me about the yellow eyed demon, Dad," interrupted Sam, pulling his best bitch face and crossing his arms.

John gave a guilty start, "How did you know about that?"

"Apparently I was taken in by Child Services when I was about four and he came and took me away - while possessing you," said Sam dryly.

"Sam, _who_ is Dean?" asked John, his voice strained.

Sam glared and huffed again in response, irritated at having his question ignored, "He's your son, and I tell you, he's _far_ too forgiving of you as far as I'm concerned."

"I only have one son, _you_. Your brother died after carrying you from the fire when you just a baby."

"What are you talking about?" shouted Sam, as he felt the room start to spin.

"I went back for Mary... your mother, even though I knew she was already... I sent Dean to carry you to safety," said John, and Sam realized with shock that his father was crying.

"In my heart I knew I wasn't going to be coming back out. But your brother came back in for me, the fire was too hot and intense and we couldn't get to each other in time. He saved us both, Sam."

"No, no, this doesn't make sense. I have a brother he was just here..." stuttered Sam in confusion.

"We've been alone in this room since you came in, son. Listen, do you ever find that time seems to go by faster than it should?"

"Well time flies when you're having fun," mocked Sam, starting to sound like his brother.

"It's a... family curse," explained John, gritting his teeth at the attitude, "Sometimes we're... other people."

"And who are you then, Dad?" asked Sam with a sudden sinking feeling.

"You call him the yellow eyed demon," John answered, feeling the shame burning through him.

"You're lying, why are you saying this crap?"

"No, think about it. Deep down you know I'm telling the truth, you've always known it," shouted John, grabbing Sam by the shoulders and shaking him.

Sam's started to hyperventilate and his eyes rolled up in their sockets.

"That's enough Dad, just lay offa him," shouted Dean, stepping in to protect his brother.

As John looked at Dean through narrowed eyes, he wondered how he had managed to fool himself for so long into not seeing what now seemed so obvious. The way his son moved and spoke was subtly different, from the way he carried himself with a more belligerent set to the jaw, to his voice being maybe just a touch deeper.

"Dean?" John asked, looking askance at his son.

It was Dean's turn to roll his eyes, "Yes?" making no attempt this time to hide the sarcasm from his voice this time.

"You heard what I said just then... to... Sam? You've been here all this time?

It was as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes, Dean saw the world and his own situation with a clarity he'd never had before. A half-remembered memory unlocked itself and Dean tried to process this sudden recall, "You-you sent me away, before Sam went to Stanford," he accused.

"That wasn't me," John's expression turned grim, "So what are you then? Do you mean him harm?"

"No!" he cried in indignation, "I'm his big brother, it's my job to look after and protect him."

The unvoiced accusation against John hung heavy in the air between them.

"There's no one else in there?"

Dean shook his head, "Nah, not unless you count _Sammy_, but barring accidents he hasn't been out for nearly twenty years."

John looked at him with curiosity, he'd been working on the assumption that Dean was a malignant presence, like Sam's version of his own yellow eyed demon.

"So you gonna keep your temper, Dad?" asked Dean.

John nodded and watched astounded as his son's face relaxed and softened and he stood a little straighter. _Sam's back, they really do just swap back and forth_, he realized the situation for Sam and Dean was a thousand miles away from his own constant fight over his body with the demon.

"I'm sorry Sam. I'm so sorry, I would do anything to spare you this if I could, but the demon killed your mother and I thought Dean was something similar. I think I have a way to kill it this time, not just drive it back to Hell, but _really_ kill it. But to do that I've got to keep it out."

He rolled up his sleeves to show the needle marks running up and down the inside of his arms.

"You're a junkie?" asked Dean in surprise.

John laughed, "This shit's pure. Finest holy water only - it seems to help keep the demon out but he's a strong one and it's a constant struggle. In the past there were always consequences for such behavior. Normally he'd get back at me through you."

"So that explains why child services were involved, but what does it want?"

"You. I'm not usually aware of what it does when it possesses me - unless it's trying to torment me, but I do know it's got some big game plan going on that involves you somehow. "

"Is it going to possess me?" asked Sam horrified.

"I don't know. I do know that it was pleased when Dean... died in the fire," he winced in apology, "and I know it used Missouri to cast Dean out, but I thought maybe they were rivals or something."

"Wait, Missouri is in cahoots with this thing too?" asked Dean, already weirded out by the revelation that he was apparently just his brother's imaginary friend.

"Oh yeah, avoid her at all costs - she's powerful and the demon has some kind of hold over her."

"This is crazy we're stronger together, we should stay together," argued Sam.

"No, we should split up, make ourselves less of a target," argued Dean, then sensing the disapproval emanating from his brother he threw up his hands in frustration, "Oh, I don't know, Dad, what do you think?"

John snorted, "I always thought this 'seeing-both-sides-of-an-argument thing' was the wannabe-lawyer kicking in, now I know you just can't agree with yourself."

Dean grimaced, he was going to take this under advisement, after all he certainly felt real enough and he _was_ the older brother – surely that had to count for something?

~#~

Tom stood over the mangled body of his sister and nudged at her with the toe of one boot.

After a moment Meg groaned in response.

"Get up sleepy head," he laughed, giving her a sharp kick in the ribs.

Meg mumbled something unrepeatable through broken teeth, as she put herself back together.

"Oh, you poor dear, did your boyfriend _dump_ you?" Tom giggled.

Meg tried not to dignify that with a comment, and pretended to concentrate on re-locating her shoulder.

"You're just jealous that he's nearly as tall as you used to be,"

Tom snorted, "Humans are such fucking midgets, I swear half the time it feels like I'm kneeling,"

"Yeah, I'd heard those rumors."

Tom smirked at the joke he'd walked straight into as he ran a possessive hand over his sister's face, healing the last remaining cuts and bruises. He leaned forward, flicking out his tongue to lick a smudge of blood from her lips before planting a tender kiss on her mouth.

"Say the word and I will kill him for you, no matter what the punishment," he growled.

Meg nipped him hard on the lip, drawing blood, "You're sweet, but knowing what's planned for him, it's a far worse punishment just to let him live."

~#~


	10. Hell House

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain from this. No harm or infringement intended.**

~#~

**The Three Faces of Winchester**

**Chapter Ten: Hell House**

Dean was indulging in a rare moment of happiness by doing exactly what he liked best; driving fast in his baby, the Impala. He had his foot flat to the floor and the empty, open road lay ahead of him as trees whipped past on either side. He felt like he was in a waking dream, not really sure if he was driving away from something, or towards it. He shook his head; these thoughts were way too deep and introspective for the likes of him. They were Sam's thoughts.

_Where is Sam?_

He glanced to one side, and sighed in relief - trying to ignore the passing fluttery, anxious sensation in his heart - he imagined he could see his younger brother asleep in the passenger seat. He could picture it clearly in his mind's eye – Sam's head lolling to one side, mouth relaxed and slightly parted.

He felt obliged to mark the moment by blowing off a little steam. He reached into the glove box and pulled out a plastic spoon from the secret stash of junk food he kept hidden from Sam. With a wicked grin he carefully placed it in Sam's mouth where it hung at an angle. Grinning in triumph - and trying not to chuckle too much in case he woke his brother - he quickly snapped a photo as evidence on his cell phone.

Sam chose that moment to wake and he flailed his arms wildly in his panic at discovering something in his mouth. Dean burst into loud peals of hysterical laughter.

"Jerk," muttered Sam as he retrieved the offending cutlery from where he had spat it out onto the car floor.

"Don't be a little bitch, I'm just playin' with ya," smirked Dean affectionately, bringing the car back under control and waving the phone in glee.

Sam snatched it and shrugged as he inspected the rather unremarkable photo of him looking straight into the camera with a slight smirk and a spoon in his mouth. _Lame_.

"Oh, it looked better when I took it," mumbled Dean in disappointed puzzlement, before shrugging and tucking the phone back into his jacket pocket.

"Do you really want to do this? Restart the whole prank war from when we were kids."

"Oh yeah! Bring it on! Remember when I put Nair in your shampoo?"

"Yeah, especially since it was you that ended up using it," Sam snorted.

"Lucky escape. Anyways, the chicks dig bald guys, so it was okay."

"Yeah, whatever," Sam laughed at Dean's weak recovery.

He looked out of the window idly, while Dean concentrated on the driving. His mind drifted to more recent serious events and he sighed.

"Wassup?" Dean asked, ever the protector, sensitive to his brother's moods, although he would never have admitted to it on pain on death.

"We should never have let Dad go, that was a big mistake," groaned Sam sorrowfully. He was having serious second thoughts and felt a little resentful towards Dean for what he felt was strong-arming him into the decision. Life with his brother, he'd decided, was a little like a runaway train; once it got moving on a course of action it was difficult to get off or change direction.

A silence hung in the air between them - an inability to talk - and to Sam it was almost like waiting for something loud and noisy to pass by. _The elephant in the room, maybe?_ The hair stood up on the back of Dean's neck and all he could hear was the sound of blood pounding in his ears. _There was...something_, Dean thought in confusion, _Something... someone said?_

"Why did we?" he asked with an expression of bewilderment.

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped and frowned, _There was a reason, what was it?_

Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling vague and wooly headed.

_Oh, God! How could I have forgotten_ _**that**__?_

"We're...the same," he started to try to explain.

"What, brothers? Hunters?"

"Yes! No, I mean we're the same person."

"That's crazy... Oh," said Dean, realizing the truth despite his instinctive objections.

"Yeah, I know, I can't quite get my head round it either."

"Ha, that's because it's not _your_ head!"

"Dude, you're the one that's not real." Sam winced as the insensitive words slipped from his lips.

"Shut up, bitch! How does that even make sense, I'm the oldest. And I'd know if I wasn't real... wouldn't I?"

"I'm not so sure."

"Huh?" Dean asked, suddenly unsure what they were talking about once more.

Sam sighed dramatically.

Dean found he had to concentrate hard to keep the conversation clear in his head. It was like walking through dense fog so that if he didn't keep a close watch on what he was doing he'd lose sight of where he was trying to get to. "You think someone would have mentioned this to us before now?" he groused.

"Maybe they have, it sure seems like we're having trouble enough just remembering from yesterday. And who would notice anyway? I mean, we're always on the move, never in one place long enough to put down roots."

"But we're not always together," Dean argued. He felt compelled to put his point across as if he was justifying his own existence.

"No, but maybe the other's asleep. Are we ever in different places at the same time?" pondered Sam aloud. He wondered if he was on the right track when it dawned on him how frequently he had gaps in his memory, or woke in places he hadn't gone to sleep. He realized he was treating this whole situation like an academic exercise as it seemed to make it more manageable and helped contain the feelings of _terror_ that thinking about this seemed to produce.

"What if neither of us is real?" he asked with a rising sense of dread.

Dean had a half remembered feeling of a _first_ - someone who was small and vulnerable and to be protected at all costs. Someone important to him who, under no circumstances, was to ever be disturbed.

"Sammy?" he whispered, despite himself. Memories and images started to play back too fast to take in, "No, no, no," he cried as he was almost swept away under their onslaught while he struggled to take control again.

Sammy woke at the sound of his name and, despite Dean's attempts at comfort, started sobbing seemingly without cease .

"What happened to us?" Sam croaked, when finally able to speak, "I mean, I can see you right there. Can't I?"

"Sheesh, people must just think we're crazy," Dean answered in hushed tones, shaking his head and breathing a sigh of relief that by some miracle they hadn't driven off the road.

"I think that's kinda true, though, don't ya think?"

"I don't wanna think about this, period," said Dean scowling.

By common, unspoken agreement they spent the rest of the journey in silence.

~#~

Dean was sat in the diner, too irritated to do more than just pick at his third piece of pie.

They'd spent some time interviewing a number of what could only jokingly be called witnesses in that none of them seemed to have actually witnessed anything. What little they had seen varied so wildly as to be worse than useless.

"This lot are crazier than we are," Dean complained. "And that's saying something since apparently I'm not real and you're just sitting here talking to yourself."

Sam noted that "not talking about it" didn't seem to include Dean bitching about it. _Well, when he remembers, anyway_. He'd noticed that the duration of his brother's lucidity - where Dean could recall their true nature - was decreasing, which was actually something of a mixed blessing given the constant moaning.

"Yeah, well, I refuse to believe I'd ever choose to make you up, and although their story's not straight, I don't think they're making that up either," he said trying to make a joke of it to lighten the mood.

"Pah! You could never imagine something as awesome as me," Dean groused jokingly.

"Yeah, it'd mean I was a very sick, sick individual," Sam said, forcing a wide grin. _Many a true word said in jest._ The smile faded and he shivered when he wondered what the other diner patrons actually saw when they looked at them.

Dean's eyes glazed over. _How am I even really seeing this?_ thought Sam, as he realized that his brother had forgotten about their situation again.

"Let's go check out the haunted house," Dean chuckled, finishing off his pie.

~#~

The house was a dump. Despite the directions and description from the ridiculously guilty looking record store worker, who had instigated the original visit, neither of them had appreciated quite how out of the way it was.

Dean looked with distaste at the large power lines running low and directly overhead that rendered any reading on his homemade EMF detector meaningless. For reasons he couldn't quite explain he felt a strange compulsion to point the device at himself. Shaking off the weird feeling he shoved the detector into his pocket and made his way cautiously into the building.

The interior, if anything, was in an even worse state of repair and looked spookily like every cliché of a haunted house in every late-night, horror B movie Dean had ever sat through.

Almost every available surface was daubed with spray painted symbols, most of them pseudo-satanic, or at least religious in nature.

Dean found himself drawn to one image in particular. It was in the form of four lines forming a cross around a central point, with the bottom stroke like an upside-down question mark. The design seemed to tickle at the back of his mind and he had the definite impression that he'd seen it somewhere before, but the memory was frustratingly absent.

Sam came to the fore and inspected the area with a more skeptical eye. There was something about the house that didn't quite ring true or sit well with him.

The sheer quantity of symbols was impressive, as was their diversity. He rolled his eyes when Dean bitched at his description of the basis of their origins. _It doesn't make sense, many of these come from adversarial, if not downright contradictory belief systems. Why would they be sharing wall space in the middle of nowhere?_ he wondered. Given the reception of his initial analysis he decided to keep the information to himself for the time being.

It was then that he noticed that given the number of competing symbols, they were all in either red or black, and, while no expert in the subject, to his eye at least they all seemed pretty much the work of the same hands. He had a mental image of two people, one with a black spray can, a shorter one with the red. _Sherlock Holmes eat your heart out_, and he chuckled at the thought of Dean as a bumbling Dr. Watson.

A sudden noise from the other room roused him from his musing. Dean was suddenly alert and pushed his way forward, kicking open the door, gun at the ready.

Dean could just make out two figures despite the glaring lights aimed at him destroying any vestige of night vision. To his mind they looked like a couple of skuzzy, douche-bag hipsters and he decided that he was going to take an instant dislike to them on principle.

"Oh, cut! It's just a human," ordered the taller man with a scruffy beard to his companion holding a film camera, "What are you doing here?" the man demanded, rudely addressing the Winchesters.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" Dean called back, bristling at the man's smug superior tone.

Bearded guy just laughed in a really affected way that made Dean just want to punch his lights out.

"We belong here, we're _professionals_."

"Professional what?" snorted Dean, _Pains-in-my-ass? Douche bags_?

"Paranormal Investigators," beardy smirked pompously as he handed out a novelty printed business card, "There you go, take a look at that."

Dean just glared; this guy definitely deserved an ass kicking.

"Oh you gotta be kidding me," Dean growled as he glanced at the card.

Sam stepped in quickly to diffuse the tension, "Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spangler? You guys run that website," he said quickly, embarrassed that he'd not yet divulged to Dean where he'd found out about the house in the first place.

"Yeah," replied Ed, the beard-guy, in an unsurprised know-it-all voice as if it was only to be expected that Sam had heard of him.

Sam frowned as he wondered if it wouldn't be preferable to let Dean pound on the guy after all.

"Oh yeah, yeah, we're huge fans," muttered Dean sarcastically.

"And yeah, we know who you are too," added Ed importantly.

Dean stepped forward, narrowing his eyes into a glare, "Oh yeah?" he growled, while surreptitiously moving his hand towards his gun.

"Amateurs," Ed added, his voice dripping with dismissive disdain, "Looking for ghosts and cheap thrills."

Dean rolled his eyes and turned away, as for the first time in their lives the Winchester brothers tussled over who _didn't_ want to be in charge of their body, in an attempt to tune out the self-important droning on of the ghost hunters

~#~

Sam stalked out of the town's public library, stretching out muscles tight from sitting still after a couple of hours of research. A relaxed and rested looking Dean was waiting for him, leaning up against the door of the Impala.

"Hey. So what you got?" Dean asked, unlocking the car.

"Well I couldn't find a Mordechai, but I did find a _Martin_ Murdock who lived in the house in the '30s. He did have children, but only two, both boys and no evidence he ever killed anyone."

"Hmm. And those kids couldn't give us a clear description. No matching missing persons - it's like she never existed. Dude, basically everything everyone thinks they know about this house is completely wrong! Come on, we did our digging, this one's a bust."

"Yeah, all right."

"For all we know those hell hound boys made it all up and this whole thing's a red herring."

Sam snorted, "Why would you ever have expected anything else, dude?"

"Oh, man let's stop talking to ourselves and go find a bar, some beers and leave the legends to the locals," Dean complained as he got in the Impala.

When he turned the key in the ignition, loud music blared from the radio at a permanently ear-damaging volume, the windshield wipers went into a frenzy, and Dean jumped so high in surprise it was a wonder he didn't headbutt the ceiling.

"Whoa! What the..." he screeched in alarm, quickly reaching over to turn everything off.

Despite having no actual memory of setting up the prank, Sam was more than happy to take the credit for its execution. With an exaggerated laugh he licked his finger and made an imaginary mark in the air before pointing to himself in obviously pleasure.

"That's all you got?" muttered Dean under his breath, desperately trying to regain his dignity as drove off with his ears still ringing.

~#~

Within a couple of hours they were back at the house in a more somber mood after hearing about a murder through radio dispatch. The witnesses seemed no more reliable than before, but this time there did actually appear to be a victim. They had arrived just in time to see the ambulance take her away.

"You know, I think I vaguely remember a time when you weren't around," said Sam quietly as they watched the house.

"What, when I was in New Orleans?" Dean asked, with the vague sense of creeping dread he always got when he tried, and failed, to remember that period in his life.

"No, when I was a little kid, it was before we started staying with Uncle Bobby."

"Really? I don't get how we keep forgetting all this stuff."

"Well, it kinda makes sense, if we knew you weren't real it'd be difficult to trust you to take care of me," he smiled to take the sting out of the words. "I remember sitting up late with Dad and him telling me about you pulling me from the fire. Who wouldn't want an older brother like that taking care of them?"

"I remember Dad saying that too. In the end I could never figure out if I was remembering Dad telling me about it or the actual doing it," admitted Dean. "But I always felt how proud he was of me."

Whatever Sam was going to say next was forgotten when he heard excited whispers coming from the woods beyond the house.

"I don't believe it," grinned Dean as he caught sight of the paranormal investigators in full ghost-hunting regalia.

Dean turned towards the direction of the waiting cops and shouted to them, "Who ya gonna call?"

There was a chaotic, muddled mixture of voices as the cops chased the investigators into the woods, leaving a chuckling Sam and Dean free reign to the house.

They stopped laughing when they discovered the spirit couldn't be killed with rock salt.

~#~

"So what, you think I'm like this _tupla_-thing too, then?" asked Dean, his brow furrowed with concentration, a short while after Sam had finished explaining his theory that the ghost wasn't a ghost, but a very strong _belief_ made real.

"Maybe. Do you reckon we're supernatural in origin then?" Sam's tone made it pretty clear he didn't share that opinion.

"Don't you?" Dean asked, still hoping for a 'no'.

Sam sighed and took a moment to gather his thoughts, "I was thinking about what Dr. Ellicott said about finding me in that motel..."

"Yes," said Dean slowly with a bad feeling he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear.

"Well, it sounded pretty traumatic, didn't it? And Dad, or rather the Yellow-Eyed Demon, grabbed me - so presumably there was more of the same after that," Sam explained, having to talk louder to be heard over the background noise.

Dean nodded his agreement as he too tried to tune out the noise of their surroundings.

"Well, neither of us remember, do we?"

"We came after..." said Dean softly, barely audible over the sound of screaming.

"Do you hear that?" asked Sam, suddenly aware of the deafening commotion all around them.

"It's okay, I got you," Dean reassured, carrying _Sammy_ to safety once more.

Dean took a deep breath, "Let's not do that again," he gasped.

"D.I.D," muttered Sam, breathless with exhaustion.

"What?"

"Dissociative Identity Disorder, otherwise known as multiple personality."

"Oh, I guess we should be grateful there's not a whole gang of us in here then, 'cause that would be weird," Dean replied automatically, his tone sarcastic as he chuckled a little at his own joke. He fell silent.

"Maybe if things were _really_ bad, but you were told over-and-over about someone who had _saved_ you," his voice cracked and he struggled to continue, "Someone who would give up _everything_ to protect you, then don't you think you might be desperate to have that person back, no matter what?"

They looked at each other, eyes glistening, neither of them clear who had just spoken.

"Wait, then does that mean there's no Yellow Eyed Demon, it was just _Dad_ all along?" asked Dean appalled.

Sam blinked. This was typical of Dean, just as you get so fed up of his obtrusiveness you feel like strangling him, he comes up with a gem of insightfulness like that. _Still I guess it's my mind too_, he thought. Then it occurred to him that it was his own mind that had wound him up in the first place.

He could sense Dean waiting impatiently for an answer.

"Yes, I guess it _is_ just Dad," he finally answered with reluctance.

Dean held his head, trying not to scream, as tears ran down his face, "He said he's gonna kill it, Sam. He's just gonna kill himself."

Sam didn't have the heart to say '_I told you so_', although he certainly thought it, "Don't worry, we'll find him again. And this time we'll stop him."

~#~

They watched in silence as the house burned and collapsed in on itself.

_It sure seems easy to wish these things into existence, but not so simple to get rid of them without drastic action. This doesn't bode well_.

Approaching sirens woke him from his woolgathering

"So is this the answer then? Just burn it out?" he asked.

"You could always try adding salt."

~#~

It was dark in the motel, the only illumination from the occasional passing vehicle, but he didn't need much light to help him make his way across the room and pull his father's journal from their duffle bag.

He flicked his way through the book until he got to the section where his brother had meticulously written out a detailed description of their condition in case they should forget again.

He felt a small stab of guilt for what he was about to do, _Think of it as a prank_, he thought as he tried to justify his actions.

With a razor from their wash bag he carefully set to cutting the page out of the journal. Once done, he inspected his work critically and was pleased that his vandalism wasn't obvious. He replaced the journal and screwed up the excised pages into a tight ball and pushed them to the bottom of the trash.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he got into bed and settled himself back down to sleep.

_Forget_, he commanded as he slipped into unconsciousness.

~#~


End file.
